"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock."
Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana.
I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was Petralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn that easel so that you can see the picture on it."
I did so.
"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the locality—describe it."
"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long streamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft short grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful colors."
"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what else do you see?"
"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored flowers."
"Describe the girl to me."
I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, and waiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has—Petralto, what makes you ask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe light; and the girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should have thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her."