"Same old stunt! Beggs and acon."
"Gee! I'm as hungry as a hunter. Break me three Humpty-dumpties and fry them sunny side up."
Charley perceived nothing amiss. Breakfast was partaken of to the accompaniment of the usual airy persiflage. Evan knew very well that Charley could supply the clues to his lost identity, but he couldn't bring himself to ask him directly. He kept his ears open for any chance remarks that might throw light on the matter, but Charley's style was so flowery he didn't get much. Charley finally departed on some errand of his own.
Left alone, Evan went about his room, touching the familiar objects, looking into everything, trying to fill in that blank space in his mind. As soon as he saw the paraphernalia he knew he was a painter. His pictures interested him greatly. He knew they were his own pictures, but he had lost all sense of kinship with them. In a way it was a great advantage; he brought a fresh point of view to bear.
"I see what's the matter with them," he said to himself. "You have been trying to convey the inner spirit of things without being sufficiently sure of their outward form. What you've got to do is to study the outsides of things further, and invite the spirit to express itself."
So interested was he that he put a fresh canvas on his easel on the spot, and started to paint. Any object would serve to prove his new theory; their brown pitcher with a broken spout and a green bowl beside it on the table. An hour passed without his noticing its flight.
Charley returned.
"Hello!" he said. "Had another row with your old man?"
"Old man!" thought Evan. "Oh, nothing much," he said aloud.
"Well, I must say you take your job pretty lightly," said Charley.