on his head, he had a certain air of nobility and authority.
“Ah!” cried Doña Carlota, looking at the other woman with intelligent, half-scared eyes, and swinging the key of the boat. “Shall we go to the lake?”
The two women departed. Ramón, laughing to himself, went out of the gate and across the outer yard, to where a big, barn-like building stood near the trees. He entered the barn, and gave a low whistle. It was answered from the loft above, and a trap-door opened. Don Ramón went up the steps, and found himself in a sort of studio and carpenter’s shop. A fattish young man with curly hair, wearing an artist’s blouse, and with mallet and chisels in his hand, greeted him.
“How is it going?” asked Ramón.
“Yes—well—”
The artist was working