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In addition to these young men, almost all of them with venomously sharp tongues, there used to come to the studio two persons who remained tranquil and indifferent amidst the furor of the discussions. One was already somewhat old, serious, thin; his name was Don Servando Arzubiaga. The other, of the same age as Alex, was called Santín. Don Servando, although a man of letters, was devoid of literary vanity, or, if he possessed any, kept it so deep down, so subterraneous, that none could discern it.

He came to the studio for relaxation; with cigarette between his lips he would listen to the varying opinions, smiling at the exaggerations and joining the conversation with some conciliatory word.

Bernardo Santín, the younger of the indifferent members, did not open his mouth; it was exceedingly difficult for him to understand how men could battle like that over a purely literary or artistic question.

Santín was meagre; his face was evenly formed, his nose thin, his eyes sad, his mustaches blond and his smile insipid. This man spent his life copying paintings in the Museo and making them progressively worse; but ever since he had begun to frequent Alex’s studio he had lost completely the little fondness he had for work.