His fatherly glance now included Argensola. . . .  “A very interesting fellow, that Argensola!” And as he thought this, he forgot completely that, without knowing him, he had been accustomed to refer to him as “shameless,” just because he was sharing his son’s prodigal life.

Desnoyers’ glance roamed delightedly around the studio.  He knew well these tapestries and furnishings, all the decorations of the former owner.  He easily remembered everything that he had ever bought, in spite of the fact that they were so many.  His eyes then sought the personal effects, everything that would call the absent occupant to mind; and he pored over the miserably executed paintings, the unfinished dabs which filled all the corners.

Were they all Julio’s? . . .  Many of the canvases belonged to Argensola, but affected by the old man’s emotion, the artist displayed a marvellous generosity.  Yes, everything was Julio’s handiwork . . . and the father went from canvas to canvas, halting admiringly before the vaguest daubs as though he could almost detect signs of genius in their nebulous confusion.

“You think he has talent, really?” he asked in a tone that implored a favorable reply.  “I always thought him very intelligent . . . a little of the diable, perhaps, but character changes with years. . . .  Now he is an altogether different man.”

And he almost wept at hearing the Spaniard, with his ready, enthusiastic speech, lauding the departed “diable,” graphically setting forth the way in which his great genius was going to take the world when his turn should come.

The painter of souls finally worked himself up into feeling as much affected as the father, and began to admire this old Frenchman with a certain remorse, not wishing to remember how he had ranted against him not so very long ago.  What injustice! . . .

Don Marcelo clasped his hand like an old comrade.  All of his son’s friends were his friends.  He knew the life that young men lived. . . .  If at any time, he should be in any difficulties, if he needed an allowance so as to keep on with his painting—­there he was, anxious to help him!  He then and there invited him to dine at his home that very night, and if he would care to come every evening, so much the better.  He would eat a family dinner, entirely informal.  War had brought about a great many changes, but he would always be as welcome to the intimacy of the hearth as though he were in his father’s home.

Then he spoke of Spain, in order to place himself on a more congenial footing with the artist.  He had never been there but once, and then only for a short time; but after the war, he was going to know it better.  His father-in-law was a Spaniard, his wife had Spanish blood, and in his home the language of the family was always Castilian.  Ah, Spain, the country with a noble past and illustrious men! . . .

Argensola had a strong suspicion that if he had been a native of any other land, the old gentleman would have praised it in the same way.  All this affection was but a reflex of his love for his absent son, but it so pleased the impressionable fellow that he almost embraced Don Marcelo when he took his departure.