But the court-artist would not let him go.

He knew how to maintain his composure, and even admitted that Ulrich must travel, but said it was still too soon.

He must first finish the work he had undertaken in the riding-school, then he himself would smooth the way to Italy for him.

To leave him, so heavily burdened, in the lurch now, would be treating him ungratefully and basely.
Ulrich was forced to acknowledge this, and continued to paint on the scaffold, but his pleasure in creating was spoiled.

He thought of nothing but Italy.
Every hour in Madrid seemed lost.