There was a huge fireplace with a blazing log-fire. I think that without its cheery crackle the oppressive feeling of mystery that hung over the room would have been almost unbearable. “We shall have more light, _señor_.” The room was lighted only by a wavering yellow glow from the fire. He touched a switch, and from above came a flood of rose-colored light that bathed us in its sensuous warmth. Over by the windows a large canvas, its face covered with a cloth, stood upon an easel; in front of the easel, nearer the side of the room, by the fireplace, I saw there was a model stand—a small board platform resting on the floor. “You have a luxurious workshop,” I said casually. The little old man looked over the room with an appraising, approving eye. “One must have one’s ease, _señor_, when one creates.” He turned another switch, and a long row of hooded electric bulbs across the top of the windows cast their brilliant light directly downward upon the shrouded canvas. “Come here,” he said. The whine had left his voice. He spoke the words as though now unconsciously he had slipped into the role of master, displaying to his pupil a great work of art. He grasped me by the coat-sleeve, pulling me forward until I stood with my back against the portieres, and faced the shrouded canvas. Then abruptly he jerked down the cloth, and in the brilliant white glare from overhead the painting stood revealed. I stared at the canvas. What I expected to see I do not know. What I saw left me gasping—first with amazement, then pity, then with an almost irrepressible desire to laugh. For upon the canvas was only a huge smear of many colored pigments—utterly formless, without meaning. I stared an instant, then turned and met the eyes of the little old man beside me. They gleamed into mine with triumph and pride, and in them I saw again—and this time plainly—the look of madness. I held back the smile that struggled to my lips. “This—this painting—is it you who—” “Is that not life, _señor_?” His thin, treble voice carried an exultant, masterful note. “Can you not see it there? Human life—painted in with pigments to make it immortal.” “Was it you who painted that—that picture?” A great pity rose in my heart for this poor, deluded madman. “I? Oh, _señor_, you do me great honor. It was painted, I have said, by Vasquez—Pedro Vasquez y Carbajál. A wonderful man, this Vasquez. They are children beside him, these others. Is it not so?” I said nothing, but gazed again at the miserably grotesque daubs on the canvas. “Look, _señor_! Is that not a soul you see in those eyes? A human soul?” He pointed a shaking finger at the smear of color before us, his eyes shining with pride. “You call them realists—these Goyas and these Zuloagas. You have seen the girls of Zuloaga, with their white faces and their lips of red. You have looked into their eves—these girls he paints—have you ever seen there the soul?