azing at its untouched surface with
hopeful eyes. What things he was going to do that afternoon! What a
power for work he felt!

When the two artists were left alone, Renovales seemed restless,
dissatisfied, constantly suspecting that something had been overlooked
for this visit, toward which he looked with chills of anxiety. Flowers;
they must get some flowers, fill all the old vases in the studio, create
an atmosphere of delicate perfume.

And Cotoner ran through the garden with the servant, plundered the
greenhouse and came in with an armful of flowers, obedient and
submissive as a faithful friend, but with a sarcastic reproach in his
eyes. All that for the "Bella Fregolina"! The master was cracked; he was
in his second childhood! If only this visit would cure him of his mania,
which was almost madness!

Afterwards the master had further orders. He must provide on one of the
tables in the studio sweets, champagne, anything good he could find.
Cotoner spoke of sending for the valet, complaining of the tasks which
were imposed on him as a result of the visit of this girl of the
guileless smile and the vile songs, who stood with arms akimbo.

"No, Pepe," the master implored. "Listen--I don't want the valet to
know. He talks afterward; my daughter probes him with questions."

Cotoner went away with a resigned expression and when he returned an
hour later, he found Renovales in the model's room arranging some
clothes.

The old painter lined up his packages on the table. He put the
confectionery in antique plates and took the bottles out of their
wrappers.

"You are served, sir," he said with ironical respect. "Do you wish
anything else, sir? The whole family is in a state of revolution over
this noble lady; your son-in-law is bringing her; I am acting as your
valet; all you need now is to send for your daughter to help her
undress."

"Thanks, Pepe, thanks ever so much," said the master with naive
gratitude, apparently undisturbed by his jests.

At luncheon time Cotoner saw him come into the dining-room with his hair
carefully combed, his mustache curled, wearing his best suit with a rose
in the buttonhole. The Bohemian laughed boisterously. The last straw! He
was crazy; they would make sport of him!

The master scarcely touched the meal. Afterwards he walked up and down
alone in the studio. How slowly the time went! At each turn through the
three studios he looked at the hands of an old clock of Saxon china,