And he, in abbreviated jacket and expansive shirt bosom, with his small, girlish feet encased in high-heeled patent leathers with white tops, danced gravely, thoughtfully, silently, like a mathematician working out a problem, under the lights that shed bluish tones upon his plastered, glossy locks.

Ladies asked to be presented to him in the sweet hope that their friends might envy them when they beheld them in the arms of the master.

Invitations simply rained upon Julio.

The most exclusive salons were thrown open to him so that every afternoon he made a dozen new acquaintances.

The fashion had brought over professors from the other side of the sea, compatriots from the slums of Buenos Aires, haughty and confused at being applauded like famous lecturers or tenors; but Julio triumphed over these vulgarians who danced for money, and the incidents of his former life were considered by the women as deeds of romantic gallantry.
"You are killing yourself," Argensola would say.