The Madden boy was worried about his laundry. It was a week late, he couldn’t remember who was doing it for him, and besides he was having one of those moods that made him worry about little things. It was not so much the tragic lack of socks, he told Harvey Todd, but there were three shirts in it that belonged to Bob Stuart. “I hate not returning people’s clothes,” he said. “I hate wearing them in the first place but this time I couldn’t help it. It’s maddening.” Harvey never rose to the heights of hysteria, and this time he was almost phlegmatic. “It’ll be along,” he said. “Don’t forget, some of it was mine. I’ll help you yell when the time comes. Jesus, I’m late.” He slammed down his cup on the table, between a broken tumbler and an eggy plate, and hurried out of the door, carrying his hat. “Canaille,” said Teddy humorously. “Cochon,” he added into the mirror, scowling fiercely. “Señor?” asked a tremulous voice at the door. A little girl held out a huge bundle as he opened the screen. “Eighty-four cents,” she said. “My mother says she can’t find one sock. She send tomorrow.” “Oh, yes? Well, tell her I’ll pay then.” “Si, señor.” There was boredom and cynicism in her tone as she turned away. Teddy’s eyes narrowed; he thought of challenging her, but what was there to say? He shrugged and forgot it, sitting by the table and looking vacantly at the unopened bundle. The sun crept up his leg and his kneecap began to prickle pleasantly under the linen trousers. He sat still until the bundle blurred and moved gently out of itself, projecting a phantom bundle an inch away from its own crisp outlines, hovering a little above the shining top of the table on which it had lain. He dreamed; a good picture like this, with the checkered table-cloth and the spots of sunlight.... A fly bit him savagely on the ankle and he stood up. The picture waiting for him must be finished today or he would hate himself. Last night he should not have stopped after working up to it all day. Had he gone on, it might have been really good. Could he ever do anything really good? Why couldn’t he get immersed, and forget people and money and his own fading flesh? He looked at the easel and felt that he would never see it as it should be; he almost wept from exasperation. There were so many interruptions. There was his own careless incompetence, and his eternal itching to see people and to have people love him, and there was money. Money.... A familiar panic began to rise. He seized a brush and set to work. It wouldn’t go. He moved about distractedly, trying to clean up the room. The dirty plates were piled up in the sink; he made a few dabs at them and changed his mind. He looked apathetically at the stiff spotted table-cloth and hung up a leather coat that had slipped from its nail. Then he caught a glimpse of the painting from a new angle; a real feeling of interest persuaded him to get to work again.