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swallow with difficulty.
    Miles felt more at ease with her than with Torrigan. “For years and years, Mr. Drummond,” she said, “I have wanted to paint the Mexican scene. These quaint and delightful people. The grandeur of the mountains. I must confess that I could not possibly tell you how many times I stopped by the roadside to dash off a few sketches. I sketch wherever I go, you know. It is the indispensable tool of the working artist. I will insist that my students this summer carry their sketch blocks everywhere. Absolutely
everywhere
!”
    Miles sometimes sketched with a very nice old lady named Mildred Means, a Cuernavaca resident who, when she had lived in Pasadena, had studied for seven years with Agnes PartridgeKeeley. It was Mrs. Means who had recommended her and had given Miles a letter to enclose in his first contact with her.
    “Now I really must get settled, Mr. Drummond. You’re being so kind. And then I must paint this charming patio the very first thing.”
    It did not take Agnes Partridge Keeley very long to get settled. She reappeared in dusty pink slacks and a pale green blouse, carrying paintbox, easel, and folding canvas stool. She set herself up in one corner of the patio and went diligently to work. It was Miles’ curiosity about her methods that caused him to be present when his two instructors met at about ten-thirty that morning. He had asked her if she knew Gambel Torrigan, and she had apologized for her ignorance in a way that somehow conveyed the idea that nobody knew Gambel Torrigan, and why should they?
    Miles was looking rather timidly over Agnes Partridge Keeley’s plump shoulder when he was startled by a loud noise directly in back of him, rather like the snorting of an irritated horse. He turned sharply and saw Gambel Torrigan standing there looking with acute revulsion at the half-completed water color on the Keeley easel. Miles had not been entirely satisfied with the way the water color was progressing. She seemed to make the patio too pretty, putting in flowers where none had yet grown. But it certainly could not be as bad as the expression on Torrigan’s face indicated.
    “Bah!” said Gambel Torrigan and reached out a long heavy arm and took the water color and tore it in half, and tore the halves in half and scattered them on the ground and spat in their general direction. Agnes leaped up, cheeks and chins shaking in shock and anger, spluttering incoherently.
    Gambel Torrigan overrode her with that rich voice of his, smiling confidently at her, saying, “My good woman, you have come down here to learn what painting is. You must forget all you think you know. I will not have one of my students turning out sickly, insipid little daubs. Leave the pretty flowers, my dear, for tourists going clickety-click with their Kodaks. Under me you will learn that painting is fire and iron and blood. Not sugar cookies. You are down here to work. To learn. I will start you from the beginning. I will teach you to use your eyes and your hands and your soul. And first you must throw away all those stinking tiresome water colors in that precious paintbox of yours.”
    Agnes Partridge Keeley’s screech finally cut through the velvety unctuousness.
    “Just who the hell do you think you are!”
    Slight bow. “I am Gambel Torrigan, your painting instructor.”
    “In a p--- a--- you’re my painting instructor!” She thumped her chest with a pink fist and yelled, “I am the instructor! I am Agnes Partridge Keeley.”
    Torrigan stared at her in comprehension and consternation and then turned with majestic regret toward Miles Drummond. “Mr. Drummond, I was not advised that I would have to try to conduct a school with the dubious assistance of an illustrator of post cards.”
    Agnes advanced on him, brush held like a dirk. “Oh, I know your type. Hah! I’ve seen a thousand of you. You couldn’t draw a horse without making it look like a chow dog.”
    “I have no intention of … excuse