tones upon his plastered, glossy locks. Ladies asked to be presented
to him in the sweet hope that their friends might envy them when they
beheld them in the arms of the master. Invitations simply rained upon
Julio. The most exclusive salons were thrown open to him so that every
afternoon he made a dozen new acquaintances. The fashion had brought
over professors from the other side of the sea, compatriots from the
slums of Buenos Aires, haughty and confused at being applauded like
famous lecturers or tenors; but Julio triumphed over these vulgarians
who danced for money, and the incidents of his former life were
considered by the women as deeds of romantic gallantry.

"You are killing yourself," Argensola would say. "You are dancing too
much."

The glory of his friend and master was only making more trouble for
him. His placid readings before the fire were now subject to daily
interruptions. It was impossible to read more than a chapter. The
celebrated man was continually ordering him to betake himself to the
street. "A new lesson," sighed the parasite. And when he was alone in
the studio numerous callers--all women, some inquisitive and aggressive,
others sad, with a deserted air--were constantly interrupting his
thoughtful pursuits.

One of them terrified the occupants of the studio with her insistence.
She was a North American of uncertain age, somewhere between thirty-two
and fifty-nine, with short skirts that whenever she sat down, seemed
to fly up as if moved by a spring. Various dances with Desnoyers and
a visit to the rue de la Pompe she seemed to consider as her sacred
rights, and she pursued the master with the desperation of an abandoned
zealot. Julio had made good his escape upon learning that this beauty