"You are, then, a portrait-painter, also?—Ah! to be sure!" and I glanced at the canvas on the easel.
"Certainly,—I prefer to make portraits."
"And in this case I should prefer to have one. Extravagant as the vanity may seem, I am willing to indulge in it, for the sake of being the first, in this land of primitive wants and fierce unrefinements, to take a step in the direction of the Fine Arts,—unless you have had calls upon your pencil already."
"None, Sir."
"Then to-morrow, if you please,—for I cannot remain longer at present,—we will discuss my whim in detail."
"I shall be at your service, Sir."
"Good day, Madam! And you, my pretty lad, well met,—what is your name?"
"Ferdy, Sir,—Ferdinand Pintal."
At that moment, his father, as if reminded of a neglected courtesy, or a business form, handed me his card,—"Camillo Alvarez y Pintal."
"Thanks, then, Ferdy, for the pains you took to entertain me. You must let me improve an acquaintance so pleasantly begun."