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Roberto, as always when he spoke of his fortune, went into an ecstasy; his imagination opened wonderful vistas of wealth, luxury, marvellous travels. In the midst of his enthusiasm and his illusions, however, the practical man would intrude; he would glance at his watch, at once calm down, and return to his writing.

Manuel arose.

“What? Are you leaving?” asked Roberto.

“Yes. What am I going to do here?”

“If you haven’t the price of lunch, take this peseta. I can’t spare more.”

“And how about you?”

“I eat at one of my pupils’ houses. Listen: if you come here to sleep, let my companion know beforehand. He’ll be here in a moment. He hasn’t got up yet. His name is Alejo Monzón, but they call him Alex.”

“Very good. Yes, sir.”

Manuel breakfasted on bread and cheese and within a short while returned to the studio. A chubby fellow with a thick, black beard, wearing a white smock, with a pipe in his mouth, was modelling a nude Venus in plaster.

“Are you Don Alejo?” Manuel asked him.

“Yes. What do you wish?”