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“No, but it requires a knowledge of photography, and you haven’t the least idea.”

“You’ll see; you’ll see whether I have or not.”

“Besides, it takes money.”

“I have the money.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“A certain party.”

“Lucky boy!”

“You’ll see.”

“I’ll wager you wheedled the money out of your sweetheart.”

“No.”

“Bah! None of your lying.”

“I tell you, no.”

“And I say, yes. Who else would give you the money? Any other person would first have investigated just how much you knew about photography and learned whether you ever worked in a studio; they would require proof of your ability. Only a woman could believe blindly, simply taking a fellow’s word for it.”

“It’s a woman who’s lending me the money, but it isn’t my sweetheart.”

“Come. None of your lies, now. I can’t believe that you’ve come here just to tell me a string of whoppers.”

Roberto, who had interrupted his writing, now resumed it.

Bernardo made no reply and began to pace up and down the room anew.

“Have you much work left?” he asked suddenly, coming to a stop.