, with
extravagant terms of affection and calling him "noble master." The
portrait of the Countess of Alberca was no longer in the studio; in a
glittering frame it hung on the walls of the illustrious lady's
drawing-room, where it received the worship of her admirers.

Sometimes of an afternoon when the ladies had left the studio and the
dull mumble of the car and the tooting of the horn had died away, the
master and his friend would talk of Lopez de Sosa. A good fellow,
somewhat foolish, but well-meaning; this was the judgment of Renovales
and his old friend. He was proud of his mustache that gave him a certain
likeness to the German emperor, and when he sat down, he took care to
show his hands, by placing them prominently on his knees, in order that
everyone might appreciate their vigorous hugeness, the prominent veins,
and the strong fingers, all this with the naive satisfaction of a
ditch-digger. His conversation always turned on feats of strength and
before the two artists he strutted as if he belonged to another race,
talking of his prowess as a fencer, of his triumphs in the bouts, of the
weights he could lift with the slightest effort, of the number of chairs
he could jump over without touching one of them. Often he interrupted
the two painters when they were eulogizing the great masters of art, to
tell them of the latest victory of some celebrated driver in the contest
for a coveted cup. He knew by heart the names of all the European
champions who had won the immortal laurel, in running, jumping, killing
pigeons, boxing or fencing.

Renovales had seen him come into the studio one afternoon, trembling
with excitement, his eyes flashing, and showing a telegram.

"Don Mariano, I have a Mercedes; they have just announced its shipment."

The painter looked blank. Who was that personage with the woman's name?
And Rafaelito smiled with pity.

"The best make, a Mercedes, better than a Panhard; everyone knows that.
Made in Germany; sixty thousand francs. There isn't another one in
Madrid."

"Well, congratulations."

And the artist shrugged his shoulders and went on painting.

Lopez de Sosa was wealthy. His father, a former manufacturer of canned
goods, had left him a fortune that he administered prudently, never
gambling, nor keeping mistresses (he had no time for such follies) but
finding all his amusement in sports that strengthen the body. He had a
coach-house of his own, where he kept his carriages and his