, but perhaps it was merely woman's gossip. There
was a moment of silence and Renovales, as if he wanted to change the
subject of conversation, turned to Soldevilla.

"And you, aren't you painting any longer? I always find you here in
working hours."

He smiled somewhat knowingly as he said this, while the youth blushed
and tried to make excuses. He was working hard, but every day he felt
the need of dropping into his master's studio for a minute before he
went to his own.

It was a habit he had formed when he was a beginner, in that period, the
best in his life, when he studied beside the great painter in a studio
far less sumptuous than this.

"And Milita? Did you see her?" continued Renovales with a good-natured
smile that had not lost its playfulness. "Didn't she 'kid' you, for
wearing that dazzling new tie?"

Soldevilla smiled too. He had been in the dining-room with Dona
Josephina and Milita and the latter had made fun of him as usual. But
she did not mean anything; the master knew that Milita and he treated
each other like brother and sister.

More than once when she was a little tot and he a lad, he had acted as
her horse, trotting around the old studio with the little scamp on his
back, pulling his hair and pounding him with her tiny fists.

"She's very cute," interrupted Cotoner. "She is the most attractive, the
best girl I know."

"And the unequaled Lopez de Sosa?" asked the master, once more in a
playful tone. "Didn't that 'chauffeur' that drives us crazy with his
automobiles come to-day?"

Soldevilla's smile disappeared. He grew pale and his eyes flashed
spitefully. No, he had not seen the gentleman. According to the ladies,
he was busy repairing an automobile that had broken down on the Pardo
road. And as if the recollection of this friend of the family was trying
for him and he wished to avoid any further allusions to him, he said
"good-by" to the master. He was going to work; he must take advantage of
the two hours of sunlight that were left. But before he went out he
stopped to say another word in praise of the portrait of the countess.

The two friends remained alone for a long while in silence. Renovales,
buried in the shadow of that niche of Persian stuffs with which his
divan was canopied, gazed at the picture.

"Is she going to come to-day?" asked Cotoner, pointing to the canvas.

Renovales shrugged his shoulders. To-day or the next day; it was
impossible to do any serious work with