Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thing happened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyes flashed and dropped; he whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as if he would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drew suddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which was approaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I had no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantly beautiful. I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but there was a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He soon complained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but still passed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evident suffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain of meeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing, lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as they entered a stately house together, "Are they married?" "Yes." "He seems devotedly in love with her." "He loved her two years before he saw her." "Impossible." "Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story." "Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together." "No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock." Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxurious in the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggests under-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute of everything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious lounging chairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was a bright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana. 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."