“What a type!” said Villegas, looking at the handsome girl, a beauty with rough black hair hanging over the eyes, and a half fierce, half shy expression.
“What character in that head, eh?”
“She has exactly the face you have been looking for,” said Lucia. “Ask her to come to the studio and pose.”
They spoke to the handsome girl, who seemed to agree. At this the elder girl caught her by the arm and dragged her back.
“No, no, you shall not go!” she cried. “Do you know what he will do? He will look you in the eyes fixedly, fixedly, like this, and while he is looking at you, he will suck your blood!” At this the two took to their heels and ran for dear life.
“You see how difficult it is to get models in Madrid!” Villegas laughed. “One is driven here, by force, to paint portraits!”
We were passing a house in a garden where an old retired General and his old wife sat opposite each other on the porch in large covered invalid chairs, keeping a sharp lookout on all passers-by. They were both deaf, and imagining other people heard no better than they, talked quite audibly about the people in the street.
“There goes Villegas, the painter,” said the wife. “He seems amused about something.” (Don José had laughed to tears over the gypsy’s warning). “What do you suppose his servant is carrying in that big box?”
“What ridiculous curiosity,” growled the General; “isn’t it the same old box?”
“No, I never saw it before. I wonder what he has got in it!”