"
The painter looked blank. Who was that personage with the woman's name?
And Rafaelito smiled with pity.
"The best make, a Mercedes, better than a Panhard; everyone knows that.
Made in Germany; sixty thousand francs. There isn't another one in
Madrid."
"Well, congratulations."
And the artist shrugged his shoulders and went on painting.
Lopez de Sosa was wealthy. His father, a former manufacturer of canned
goods, had left him a fortune that he administered prudently, never
gambling, nor keeping mistresses (he had no time for such follies) but
finding all his amusement in sports that strengthen the body. He had a
coach-house of his own, where he kept his carriages and his automobiles
which he showed to his friends with the satisfaction of an artist. It
was his museum. Besides, he owned several teams of horses, for modern
fads did not make him forget his former tastes, and he took as much
pride in his past glories as a horseman as he did in his skill as a
driver of cars. At rare intervals, on the days of an important
bull-fight or when some sensational races were being run in the
Hippodrome, he won a triumph on the box by driving six cabs, covered
with tassels and bells, that seemed to proclaim the glory and wealth of
their owner with their noisy course.
He was proud of his virtuous life; free from foolishness or petty love
affairs, wholly devoted to sports and show. His income was less than his
expenses. The numerous personnel of his stable-garage, his horses,
gasoline and tailors' bills ate up even a part of the principal.
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