fe that young men lived.
. . . If at any time, he should be in any difficulties, if he needed an
allowance so as to keep on with his painting--there he was, anxious to
help him! He then and there invited him to dine at his home that very
night, and if he would care to come every evening, so much the better.
He would eat a family dinner, entirely informal. War had brought about a
great many changes, but he would always be as welcome to the intimacy of
the hearth as though he were in his father's home.

Then he spoke of Spain, in order to place himself on a more congenial
footing with the artist. He had never been there but once, and then only
for a short time; but after the war, he was going to know it better.
His father-in-law was a Spaniard, his wife had Spanish blood, and in
his home the language of the family was always Castilian. Ah, Spain, the
country with a noble past and illustrious men! . . .

Argensola had a strong suspicion that if he had been a native of any
other land, the old gentleman would have praised it in the same way. All
this affection was but a reflex of his love for his absent son, but it
so pleased the impressionable fellow that he almost embraced Don Marcelo
when he took his departure.

After that, his visits to the studio were very frequent. The artist was
obliged to recommend his friends to take a good long walk after lunch,
abstaining from reappearing in the rue de la Pompe until nightfall.
Sometimes, however, Don Marcelo would unexpectedly present himself in
the morning, and then the soulful impressionist would have to scurry
from place to place, hiding here, concealing there, in order that his
workroom should preserve its appearance of virtuous labor.

"Youth . . . youth!" the visitor would murmur with a smile of tolerance.

And he actually had to make an effort to recall the dignity of his
years, in order not to ask Argensola to present him to the fair
fugitives whose presence he suspected in the interior rooms. Perhaps
they had been his boy's friends, too. They represented a part of his
past, anyway, and that was enough to make him presume that they had
great charms which made them interesting.

These surprises, with their upsetting consequences, finally made the
painter rather regret this new friendship; and the invitations to dinner
which he was constantly receiving bored him, too. He found the Desnoyers
table most excellent, but too tedious--for the father and mother could
talk of