eight in
the morning
Sandoz and Dubuche were already descending the stairs with a great clatter , and Claude followed them , fleeing his work , in agony at having to leave it thus scarred with a gaping gash . THE beginning of the week proved disastrous to Claude . He had relapsed into one of those periods of self-doubt that made him hate painting , with the hatred of a lover betrayed , who overwhelms the faithless one with insults although tortured by an uncontrollable desire to worship her yet again . So on the Thursday , after three frightful days of fruitless and solitary battling , he left home as early as eight in the morning , banging his door violently , and feeling so disgusted with himself that he swore he would never take up a brush again . When he was unhinged by one of these attacks there was but one remedy , he had to forget himself , and , to do so , it was needful that he should look up some comrades with whom to quarrel , and , above all , walk about and trudge across Paris , until the heat and odour of battle rising from her paving-stones put heart into him again . That day , like every other Thursday , he was to dine at Sandoz 's , in company with their friends . But what was he to do until the evening ?