“Manuel’s Rosina!” sighed Don Luis! “Painted the second year we were at the Spanish Academy in Rome. He died last summer and all his things were sold for his widow!”
“Come away,” I cried, “it has grown cold!”
On our way from the Rastro to the Tower of Babel we passed through the Pasajé del Alhambra. Villegas and J. were just leaving the studio, so we all walked home together. It was the hour at which the old General and his wife (the couple who always watched for Villegas as he passed their house on his way to and from his work) usually started for their afternoon drive. The proud porter stood at the gate in his best uniform, with all the General’s coats-of-arms and his wife’s woven into the yellow galloon trimmings. A carriage with two men in livery drove up to the door. A young woman came out of the house, followed by three flossy white poodles, their topknots tied up with strawberry and buff,—the General’s colors.
“We call her the dog governess,” J. explained.
“You are to take the dogs out, Tomaso,” she said; “nobody will drive to-day. They are both ill; I am going for a walk.”
Tomaso, the coachman looked exactly like the eldest poodle; he glanced scornfully over his shoulder at the dogs sitting up grandly, with their dear little paws in air. Their manners showed a martinet’s training. The governess held up a warning finger.
“Sit up, Prim,” she said. Prim gave a reassuring bark, and the General’s carriage drove solemnly through the big bronze gates, on the way to the Park of the Buen Retiro.
“How horrible to have to drive every day!” said Patsy, “as if it was not enough to have to eat and sleep away so much time. If anything is to be exercised, rather my body than my horses!”
“Se sabé!” Villegas agreed.
“The General was well till he was put on the retired list,” said Don Luis. “People say he is only ill because he is idle.”