not in the habit of displaying his wares before callers, but it seemed equally clear, at least to Grover, that Olga had put him on his mettle.
The canvasses he brought out for their inspection were of an undeniably high quality. If Grover had been rich enough, he would have been tempted by some of these wickedly funny old women and ungainly men, vagabonds and sinners, horrendously nude. They grew on him as drawing after drawing was placed on the easel. After the first shock of resentment at the making light of things which, if not exactly sacred, should at least have been private, one subscribed with gusto to the skilfully emphasized incongruities, the wounding humor. They furnished the sort of enjoyment one derived from the brutal pranks recounted in old Spanish stories like the Lazarillo de Tormes. They had the beauty of gargoyles, combined with an awesome veracity.
Peñaverde took his guests to a smaller room, against the walls of which were turned numerous canvasses of all sizes. "These are old things," he said, "done in my salad days. Sometimes I think they are the best of all."
His running commentaries were directed chiefly toward Olga.
"Oh!" cried Floss, picking up a neglected portrait and holding it to the light. "That's sweet! Who is she?"
Peñaverde went to her side, and smiled as he saw
