In the weeks between the first few Sundays of his discipline he had flung himself savagely into his work, resolved that Maisie should at least know the full stretch of his powers.

Then he had taught Maisie that she must not pay the least attention to any work outside her own, and Maisie had obeyed him all too well.

She took his counsels, but was not interested in his pictures.
'Your things smell of tobacco and blood,' she said once.

'Can't you do anything except soldiers ?' 'I could do a head of you that would startle you,' thought Dick,--this was before the red-haired girl had brought him under the guillotine,--but he only said, 'I am very sorry,' and harrowed Torpenhow's soul that evening with blasphemies against Art.

Later, insensibly and to a large extent against his own will, he ceased to interest himself in his own work.
For Maisie's sake, and to soothe the self-respect that it seemed to him he lost each Sunday, he would not consciously turn out bad stuff, but, since Maisie did not care even for his best, it were better not to do anything at all save wait and mark time between Sunday and Sunday.
Torpenhow was disgusted as the weeks went by fruitless, and then attacked him one Sunday evening when Dick felt utterly exhausted after three hours' biting self-restraint in Maisie's presence.