It was on a day of gloom within and gloom without that he set every canvas in the studio in a row before him. He went slowly from one to another and studied them all. Into this funereal stock-taking Jane entered. The deep distress on his face stopped her.
"What's the matter, Mr. Paxton?"
"Jane Judd, why do you suppose I ever thought I could paint?"
"Has anything happened?"
"These have happened! Look at this collection of wax-works! Bad drawing, no style, paint put on with a squirt gun."
"There is nothing like taking a good square look at what you have been doing, to make you mend your ways," she said, but he was not listening. He was enjoying his despair.
"I'll smash the whole lot of them. I never want to see them again!" He struck a wet brush across the nearest one, but Jane seized his arm.
"Don't do that."
"I can't live in the room with them."
"All right. Send them up to the storage room."