Their love had acquired the majestic importance of acknowledged fact, and from five to seven had taken refuge in the fifth floor of the rue de la Pompe where Julio had an artist's studio.

The curtains well drawn over the double glass windows, the cosy hearth-fire sending forth its ruddy flame as the only light of the room, the monotonous song of the samovar bubbling near the cups of tea--all the seclusion of life isolated by an idolizing love--had dulled their perceptions to the fact that the afternoons were growing longer, that outside the sun was shining later and later into the pearl-covered depths of the clouds, and that a timid and pallid Spring was beginning to show its green finger tips in the buds of the branches suffering the last nips of Winter--that wild, black boar who so often turned on his tracks.
Then Julio had made his trip to Buenos Aires, encountering in the other hemisphere the last smile of Autumn and the first icy winds from the pampas.

And just as his mind was becoming reconciled to the fact that for him Winter was an eternal season--since it always came to meet him in his change of domicile from one extreme of the planet to the other--lo, Summer was unexpectedly confronting him in this dreary garden! A swarm of children was racing and screaming through the short avenues around the monument.

On entering the place, the first thing that Julio encountered was a hoop which came rolling toward his legs, trundled by a childish hand.

Then he stumbled over a ball.