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“I am a friend of Don Roberto’s, and I came to see him today. I told him I was out of work and homeless, and he said I might sleep here.”

“You’ll have to use the sofa,” replied the man in the white smock, “for there’s no other bed.”

“That’s all right, I’m used to it.”

“So! Have you anything special to do?”

“No.”

“Well, suppose you step on to the platform, then; you can serve as my model. Sit down on this box. So. Now rest your head on your hand as if you were thinking of something. Fine. That’s excellent. Look up a bit higher. That’s it.”

The sculptor sat down, with a single blow of his fist smashed the Venus that he had been modelling, and began upon another figure.

Manuel soon grew weary of posing and told Alex, who said that he might rest.

In the middle of the afternoon a group of the sculptor’s friends invaded the garret; two of them rolled up their sleeves and began to heap up clay on a table; one long-haired fellow sat down upon the sofa. Shortly afterward a fresh contingent arrived and they all began to talk at the top of their voices.