"We are a different sort, eh, Pepe?" said Renovales with a sly wink.
"When we were boys we didn't care for our bodies so well, but we had
better times. We weren't so pure, but we were interested in something
higher than automobiles and prize cups; we had ideals."
Then he began to talk again of the young man who expected to become one
of his family and made sport of his mentality.
"If Milita decides on him, I won't object. The important thing in such
matters is that they should be congenial to each other. He's a good boy;
I could almost give him my blessing. But I suspect that when the
sensation of novelty has worn off, he will go back to his fads and poor
Milita will be jealous of those machines that are eating up the greater
part of his fortune."
Sometimes, before the light died out in the afternoon, Renovales excused
his model, if he had one, and laying aside his brushes went out of the
studio. When he came back, he would have on his coat and hat.
"Pepe, let's take a walk."
Cotoner knew where this walk would land them.
They followed the iron fence of the Retiro and went down the Calle de
Alcala, walking slowly among the groups of strollers, some of whom
turned round behind them to point out the master. "That taller one is
Renovales, the painter." In a few minutes, Mariano hastened his step
with nervous impatience, he stopped talking and Cotoner followed him
with an ill-humored expression, humming between his teeth.
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