and more formal.

"He's crazy," she said. "He's finished. There's nothing left of him but
a memory of what he once was."

Cotoner in his unswerving friendship was indignant at hearing such
comment on the famous master.

"He isn't drinking. All that people say about him is a lie; the usual
legend about a celebrated man."

He had his own ideas about Mariano; he knew his longing for a stirring
life, his desire to imitate the habits of youth in the prime of life,
with a thirst for all the mysteries which he fancied were hidden in this
evil life, of which he had heard without ever daring till then to join
in them.

Cotoner accepted the master's new habits indulgently. Poor fellow!

"You are putting into action the pictures of 'The Rake's Progress,'" he
said to his friend. "You're going the way of all virtuous men when they
cease to be so, on the verge of old age. You are making a fool of
yourself, Mariano."

But his loyalty led him to acquiesce in the new life of the master. At
last he had given in to his requests and had come to live with him. With
his few pieces of luggage he occupied a room in the house and cared for
Renovales with almost paternal solicitude. The Bohemian showed great
sympathy for him. It was the same old story: "He who does not do it at
the beginning does it at the end," and Renovales, after a life of hard
work, was rushing into a life of dissipation with the blindness of a
youth, admiring vulgar pleasures, clothing them with the most fanciful
seductions.

Cotoner frequently harassed him with complaints. What had he brought him
to live at his house for? He deserted him for days at a time; he wanted
to go out alone; he left him at home like a trusty steward. The old
Bohemian posted himself minutely on his life. Often the students in the
Art School, gathered at nightfall beside the entrance to the Academy,
saw him going down the Calle de Alcala, muffled in his cloak with an
affected air of mystery that attracted attention.

"There goes Renovales. That one, the one in the cloak."

And they followed him out of curiosity--in his comings and goings
through the broad street where he circled about like a silent dove as if
he were waiting for something. Sometimes, no doubt tired of these
evolutions, he went into a cafe and the curious admirers followed him,
pressing their faces against the window-panes. They saw him drop into a
chair, looking vaguely at the glass before him; always the same thing:
br