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“Who is that Englishwoman?”

“What Englishwoman?”

“That blond girl you’ve been out sporting with!”

“That’s my sweetheart; but she’s not English. She’s Polish. A girl whose acquaintance I made at the Museo. She gives lessons in French and English.”

“And what’s her name?”

“Esther.”

“A fine article for winter nights,” blurted the fellow who was learning how to write sainetes.

“How do you make that out?” queried Bernardo.

“Easy. ’Cause an esterassss1 adds to the comfort of a room.”

“Oh! Oh! Out with him! Throw him out!” rose a general shout.

“Thanks! Many thanks, my dear public,” replied the joker, unabashed.

Santín told how he had come to know the Polish girl. They were all more or less filled with envy of Bernardo’s success, and they set about poisoning his triumph, insinuating that this Polish miss might be an adventuress, that perhaps she was in her fifties, and might have had two or three kids by some carbineer.... Bernardo, who saw through their malice, never returned to the café.

Very early one morning, a couple of weeks after this scene, Manuel was still asleep on the sofa of the studio, and Roberto, according to his habit, was at work upon the translation of the ten pages that constituted his daily stint, when the door of the studio was flung open and in swept Bernardo. Manuel awoke at the sound of his steps, but pretended to be fast asleep.