form in the
street, without feeling a violent desire to disrobe it.

These stories came to Cotoner's ears. Mariano! Mariano! He did not dare
to rebuke him openly for these shameful nocturnal adventures; he was
afraid of a violent explosion of anger on the part of the master. He
must direct him prudently. But what most aroused his old friend's
censure was the people with whom the artist associated.

This false rejuvenation made him seek the company of the younger men and
Cotoner cursed roundly when at the close of the theater he found him in
a cafe, surrounded by his new comrades, all of whom might be his sons.
Most of them were painters, novices, some with considerable talent,
others whose only merit was their evil tongue, all of them proud of
their friendship with the famous man, delighting like pigmies in
treating him as an equal, jesting over his weaknesses. Great Heavens!
Some of the bolder even went so far as to call him by his first name,
treating him like a glorious failure, presuming to make comparisons
between his paintings and what they would do when they could. "Mariano,
art moves in different paths, now."

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Cotoner would exclaim. "You look like
a schoolmaster surrounded by children. You ought to be spanked. A man
like you tolerating the insolence of those shabby fellows!"

Renovales' good nature was unshaken. They were very interesting; they
amused him; he found in them the joy of youth. They went together to the
theaters and music halls, they knew women; they knew where the good
models were; with them he could enter many places where he would not
venture to go alone. His years and ugliness passed unnoticed amid that
youthful merry crowd.

"They are of service to me," the poor man said with a sly wink. "I am
amused and they tell me lots of things. Besides, this isn't Rome; there
are hardly any models; it is very difficult to find them and these boys
are my guides."

And he went on to speak of his great artistic plans, of that picture of
Phryne, with her divine nakedness, which had once more risen in his
mind, of the beloved portrait which was still in the same condition as
his brush had left it when he finished the head.

He was not working. His old energy, which had made painting a necessary
element in his life, now found vent in words, in the desire to see
everything, to know "new phases of life."

Soldevilla, his favorite pupil, found himself a target for the mas