As we reached the corner of the Barquillo, Villegas exclaimed: “There’s the Novio. He must have been ill, he looks rather pale; I haven’t seen him for a week.” The novio, a pallid young man in a plaid suit, stood in a protected angle of the side-walk, looking up at a window at the top of a high house where a roguish girl’s face looked out from between the curtains. The young man was talking with his fingers in the deaf and dumb language.
“He talks so fast I cannot read what he says,” said Villegas. “But one can guess; one has either heard or said such things oneself, is it not so?”
At the opposite corner the old flower woman, who sat stooping and huddled under her black shawls like the eldest of the Fates, chose from her stock a white hyacinth and silently handed it to Villegas, who gave her a coin, took the flower and walked briskly on. The old woman sat up a little straighter, after he had passed, and set her flowers in better order. It is characteristic of Villegas that people always sit up straighter and put their affairs in better order when he has passed their way.
Angoscia, the glove-maker of Granada, who takes care of the studio, and serves as a draped model, opened the studio door: it is almost impossible in Madrid to get either male or female models to pose for the nude. Angoscia is a pretty young woman with an almost perfect face, beautiful hands and feet, but with a tendency to grow stout.
“You have been eating maccaroni again!” said Lucia.
“No, no, I swear by the Virgin I have not. I eat nothing, I starve myself, I am hungry always.”
“Or torrones. You are much fatter than before Christmas; that comes of giving you a holiday!”
Poor Angoscia, looking worthy of her name—it means anguish—made a diversion by asking what we had brought in the box. Lucia, with her help, then unpacked a fine cocked hat, a red and blue military coat and waistcoat, a pair of short white cloth knee breeches, the belt linings and pockets of heaviest satin, a dainty sword and sword belt. Angoscia drew the damascened Toledo blade, pretty as a toy, cruel as death, from its sheath; it glinted in the sun and flashed its reflection in her soft brave eyes. Everything in the box was most carefully packed, each silver button and bit of silver lace separately wrapped in black tissue paper to keep it from tarnishing. At the very bottom of the box was a long thin morocco case. This I opened, gave a scream, and almost dropped the case that contained the ensign of the Order of the Garter. The garter was of dark blue velvet bordered with gold. The letters were separate, of very thick gold, attached by invisible rivets to the velvet. After the legend “Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense” the velvet strap was heavily embroidered in gold thread, the tab and buckle were finely chased gold.
“A beautiful piece of work!” Villegas turned it over in his hand and nodded approval. How all good workmen feel a good piece of work!
“Edward the Black Prince was made the first knight of the Order of the Garter after Crécy, when he brought the great ruby back from Spain,” said J.