That was the art of life--what the real artist would consistently do.

He would close the door on his impression, treat it as a private museum.

He would see that he could lounge and linger there, live with wonderful things there, lie up there to rest and refit.

For himself he was sure that after a little he should be able to paint there--do things in a key he had never thought of before.

When she brought him the rug he took it from her and made her sit down on the bench and resume her knitting; then, passing behind her with a laugh, he placed it over her own shoulders; after which he moved to and fro before her, his hands in his pockets and his cigarette in his teeth.