fidence.
The transformed old man was beaming on him like a comrade, and making
excuses to justify his visit.

He had wished to see his son's home. Poor old man! He was drawn thither
by the same attraction which leads the lover to lessen his solitude by
haunting the places that his beloved has frequented. The letters from
Julio were not enough; he needed to see his old abode, to be on familiar
terms with the objects which had surrounded him, to breathe the same
air, to chat with the young man who was his boon companion.

His fatherly glance now included Argensola. . . . "A very interesting
fellow, that Argensola!" And as he thought this, he forgot completely
that, without knowing him, he had been accustomed to refer to him as
"shameless," just because he was sharing his son's prodigal life.

Desnoyers' glance roamed delightedly around the studio. He knew well
these tapestries and furnishings, all the decorations of the former
owner. He easily remembered everything that he had ever bought, in spite
of the fact that they were so many. His eyes then sought the personal
effects, everything that would call the absent occupant to mind; and he
pored over the miserably executed paintings, the unfinished dabs which
filled all the corners.

Were they all Julio's? . . . Many of the canvases belonged to Argensola,
but affected by the old man's emotion, the artist displayed a marvellous
generosity. Yes, everything was Julio's handiwork . . . and the father
went from canvas to canvas, halting admiringly before the vaguest daubs
as though he could almost detect signs of genius in their nebulous
confusion.

"You think he has talent, really?" he asked in a tone that implored a
favorable reply. "I always thought him very intelligent . . . a little
of the diable, perhaps, but character changes with years. . . . Now he
is an altogether different man."

And he almost wept at hearing the Spaniard, with his ready, enthusiastic
speech, lauding the departed "diable," graphically setting forth the
way in which his great genius was going to take the world when his turn
should come.

The painter of souls finally worked himself up into feeling as much
affected as the father, and began to admire this old Frenchman with a
certain remorse, not wishing to remember how he had ranted against him
not so very long ago. What injustice! . . .

Don Marcelo clasped his hand like an old comrade. All of his son's
friends were his friends. He knew the li