I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it was Petralto’s pleasure to begin.  After a while he said, “Jack, turn that easel so that you can see the picture on it.”

I did so.

“Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, the locality—­describe it.”

“A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and long streamers of weird grey moss.  The ground is covered with soft short grass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderful colors.”

“Right.  It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe.  Now, what else do you see?”

“A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girl standing on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-colored flowers.”

“Describe the girl to me.”

I turned and looked at my querist.  He was smoking, with shut eyes, and waiting calmly for my answer.  “Well, she has—­Petralto, what makes you ask me?  You might paint, but it is impossible to describe light; and the girl is nothing else.  If I had met her in such a wood, I should have thought she was an angel, and been afraid of her.”

“No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood.  When I first saw her, she stood just so, with her open palms full of yellow jasmine.  I laid my heart into them, too, my whole heart, my whole life, and every joy and hope it contained.”

“What were you doing in Texas?”

“What are you doing in New York?  I was born in Texas.  My family, an old Spanish one, have been settled there since they helped to build San Antonio in 1730.  I grew up pretty much as Texan youths do—­half my time in the saddle, familiar with the worst side of life and the best side of nature.  I should have been a thorough Ishmaelite if I had not been an artist; but the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic and in my twentieth year I went to Rome to study.

“I can pass the next five years.  I do not pretend to regret them, though, perhaps, you would say I simply wasted time and opportunity.  I enjoyed them, and it seems to me I was the person most concerned in the matter.  I had a fresh, full capacity then for enjoyment of every kind.  I loved nature and I loved art.  I warmed both hands at the glowing fire of life.  Time may do his worst.  I have been happy, and I can throw those five careless, jovial years, in his face to my last hour.

“But one must awake out of every pleasant dream, and one day I got a letter urging my immediate return home.  My father had got himself involved in a lawsuit, and was failing rapidly in health.  My younger brother was away with a ranger company, and the affairs of the ranch needed authoritative overlooking.  I was never so fond of art as to be indifferent to our family prosperity, and I lost no time in hurrying West.

“Still, when I arrived at home, there was no one to welcome me!  The noble, gracious Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old Alamo Church; somewhere on the llano my brother was ranging, still with his wild, company; and the house, in spite of the family servants and Mexican peons, was sufficiently lonely.  Yet I was astonished, to find how easily I went back to my old life, and spent whole days in the saddle investigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch.