r
business. For him, it was impossible to celebrate with hoarse ha-has,
like his cousins, the discomfiture of these women when they realized
that they had wasted so many hours without accomplishing more than
abundant drinking. The gross obscenity, so public and noisy, like a
parade of riches, was loathsome to Julio. "There is nothing like this
in Paris," his cousins repeatedly exulted as they admired the stupendous
salons, the hundreds of men and women in pairs, the thousands of
tipplers. "No, there certainly was nothing like that in Paris." He was
sick of such boundless pretension. He seemed to be attending a fiesta
of hungry mariners anxious at one swoop to make amends for all former
privations. Like his father, he longed to get away. It offended his
aesthetic sense.

Don Marcelo returned from this visit with melancholy resignation. Those
people had undoubtedly made great strides. He was not such a blind
patriot that he could not admit what was so evident. Within a few years
they had transformed their country, and their industry was astonishing
. . . but, well . . . it was simply impossible to have anything to do
with them. Each to his own, but may they never take a notion to envy
their neighbor! . . . Then he immediately repelled this last suspicion
with the optimism of a business man.

"They are going to be very rich," he thought. "Their affairs are
prospering, and he that is rich does not hunt quarrels. That war of
which some crazy fools are always dreaming would be an impossible
thing."

Young Desnoyers renewed his Parisian existence, living entirely in the
studio and going less and less to his father's home. Dona Luisa began to
speak of a certain Argensola, a very learned young Spaniard, believing
that his counsels might prove most helpful to Julio. She did not know
exactly whether this new companion was friend, master or servant. The
studio habitues also had their doubts. The literary ones always spoke
of Argensola as a painter. The painters recognized only his ability as a
man of letters. He was among those who used to come up to the studio
of winter afternoons, attracted by the ruddy glow of the stove and the
wines secretly provided by the mother, holding forth authoritatively
before the often-renewed bottle and the box of cigars lying open on the
table. One night, he slept on the divan, as he had no regular quarters.
After that first night, he lived entirely in the studio.

Julio soon discovered in him a