“The success with which your charming little boy has entertained me has made the time seem very short.  I could willingly have waited longer.”

That last remark was a mere contretemps.  I did not mean to be as severe as he evidently thought me, for he bowed haughtily and resentfully.

I came at once to business,—­drew from my pocket the engraving I had brought,—­“Could he copy that for me?”

“How?—­in miniature or life-size?—­ivory or canvas?”

“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.”

The boy’s hand trembled as it lay in mine, and his eyes, fixed upon his father’s, wore again the ominous expression of the picture.  He did not speak, and his father took a step toward the door significantly.

But the doleful silence that might have attended my departure was broken by a demonstration, “as per sample,” from my country’s fair and gentle ’ater.  “She ’oped I would not be hoffended by the freedom of ’er hobservations on my countrymen.  I must hexcuse ’er Hinglish bluntness; she was haware that she ’ad a somewhat hoff-’and way of hexpressing ’er hemotions; but when she ’ated she ’ated, and it relieved ’er to hout with it hat once.  Certainly she would never—­bless ’er ’eart, no!—­’ave taken me for an American; I was so huncommonly genteel.”

With my hand upon the region of my heart, as I had seen stars, when called before the curtain on the proudest evening of their lives, give anatomical expression to their overwhelming sense of the honor done them, I backed off, hat in hand.

“Camillo Alvarez y Pintal,” I read again, as I approached the Plaza.  “Can this man be Spanish, then?  Surely not;—­how could he have acquired his excellent English, without a trace of foreign accent, or the least eccentricity of idiom?  His child, too, said nothing of that.  English, no doubt, of Spanish parentage; or,—­oh, patience!  I shall know by-and-by, thanks to my merry Virginia jade, who shall be arrayed in resplendent hues, and throned in a golden frame, if she but feed my curiosity generously enough.”