izing it, as if his words were the
inevitable outburst of the thoughts that rushed into his mind and seemed
to pass back and forth behind the lenses of his eyes. His expressions of
admiration were in different tones, marking a descending scale of
memories.

The painter looked with delight at the gracefully delicate form,
luminous, as though within it burned the flame of life, showing through
the pearl-pale flesh. A shadow, scarcely perceptible, veiled in mystery
of her femininity; the light traced a bright spot on her smoothly
rounded knees and once more the shadow reached down to her tiny feet
with their delicate toes, rosy and babyish.

The woman was small, graceful, and dainty; the Spanish Venus with no
more flesh than was necessary to cover her supple, shapely frame with
softly curving outlines. Her amber eyes that flashed slyly, were
disconcerting with their gaze; her mouth had in its graceful corners the
fleeting touch of an eternal smile; on her cheeks, elbows and feet the
pink tone showed the transparency and the moist brilliancy of those
shells that open their mysterious colors in the secret depths of the
sea.

"Goya's _Maja_. The _Maja Desnuda!_"

He no longer said these words aloud, but his thought and his expression
repeated them, his smile was their echo.

Renovales was not alone. From time to time groups of visitors passed
back and forth between his eyes and the picture, talking loudly. The
tread of heavy feet shook the wooden floor. It was noon and the
bricklayers from nearby buildings were taking advantage of the noon hour
to explore those salons as if it were a new world, delighting in the
warm air of the furnaces. As they went, they left footprints of plaster
on the floor; they called out to each other to share their admiration
before a picture; they were impatient to take it all in at a single
glance; they waxed enthusiastic over the warriors in their shining armor
or the elaborate uniforms of olden times. The cleverest among them
served as guides to their companions, driving them impatiently. They had
been there the day before. Go ahead! There was still a lot to see! And
they ran toward the inner halls with the breathless curiosity of men who
tread on new ground and expect something marvelous to rise before their
steps.

Amid this rush of simple admirers there passed, too, some groups of
Spanish ladies. All did the same thing before Goya's work, as if they
had been previously coached. They we