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They mentioned and discussed a number of things, concerning painting, sculpture, plays. Manuel imagined that they must be important personages.

They had everybody pigeon-holed. So-and-so was admirable; Such-and-such was detestable; A was a genius; B, an imbecile.

Of a surety they had no use for middle tints and middle terms; they seemed to be the arbiters of opinion,—juries and judges over everything.

At nightfall they prepared to leave.

“Are you going out?” asked the sculptor of Manuel.

“I’ll go out for a moment, just to get supper.”

“All right. Here’s the key. I’ll be back around twelve, and I’ll knock.”

“Very well.”

Manuel ate another meal of bread and cheese and then took a stroll through the streets. After night had fallen he returned to the studio. It was cold up there,—colder than in the street. He groped his way to the sofa, stretched himself out and awaited the sculptor’s return. It was nearly one when Alex knocked at the door and Manuel opened for him.

Alex came back in an ugly mood. He went to his alcove, lighted a candle and began to pace about the room, talking to himself.