were copying in the next room. The intimacy of the studio, the
warmth and the colour and the meretricious luxury were gone from his
life. On the other hand he was making money. He had fifty pounds in
the Savings Bank, the maximum of petty thrift which an
incomprehensive British Government encourages, and a fair, though
unknown, sum in an iron money-box hidden behind his washstand. Up to
now he had had no time to learn how to spend money. When he took to
smoking cigarettes, which he had done quite recently, he regarded
himself as a man.

Higgins's "How beastly!" rang in his head. Although he could not
quite understand the full meaning of the brutal judgment, it brought
him disquiet and discontent. For one thing, like the high-road, his
profession led nowhither. The thrill of adventure had gone from it.
It was static, and Paul's temperament was dynamic. He had also lost
his boyish sense of importance, of being the central figure in the
little stage. Disillusion began to creep over him. Would he do
nothing else but this all his life? Old Erricone, the patriarchal,
white-bearded Italian, the doyen of the models of London, came
before his mind, a senile posturer, mumbling dreary tales of his
inglorious achievements: how he was the Roman Emperor in this
picture and Father Abraham in the other; how painters could not get
on without him; how once he had been summoned from Rome to London;
how Rossetti had shaken hands with him. Paul shivered at the thought
of himself as the Erricone of a future generation.

The next day was Saturday, and he had no sitting. The morning he
spent in his small bedroom in the soothing throes of literary
composition. Some time ago he had thought it would be a mighty fine
thing to be a poet, and had tried his hand at verse. Finding he