would make such abominable proposals to her!

Renovales, offended at these insults, at these lashes which her shrill,
piercing voice dealt his artistic talent, left his wife, let her roll on
the floor and with clenched fists, went from one end of the room to the
other, looking at the ceiling, muttering all the oaths, Spanish and
Italian, that were in current use in his studio.

Suddenly he stood still, rooted to the floor by terror and surprise.
Josephina, still naked, had jumped on the picture with the quickness of
a wild cat. With the first stroke of her finger nails, she scratched the
canvas from top to bottom, mingling the colors that were still soft,
tearing off the thin shell of the dry parts. Then she caught up the
little knife from the paint box and--rip! the canvas gave a long moan,
parted under the thrust of that white arm which seemed to have a bluish
cast in the violence of her wrath.

He did not move. For a moment he felt indignant, tempted to throw
himself on her but he lapsed into a childish weakness, ready to cry, to
take refuge in a corner, to hide his weak, aching head. She, blind with
wrath, continued to vent her fury on the picture, tangling her feet in
the wood of the frame, tearing off pieces of canvas, walking back and
forth with her prey like a wild beast. The artist had leaned his head
against the wall, his strong breast shook with cowardly sobs.

To the almost fatherly grief at the loss of his work was added the
bitterness of disappointment. For the first time he foresaw what his
life was going to be. What a mistake he had made in marrying that girl
who admired his art as a profession, as a means of making money, and who
was trying to mold him to the prejudices and scruples of the circle in
which she was born! He loved her in spite of this and he was certain
that she did not love him less, but, still, perhaps it would have been
better to remain alone, free for his art and, in case a companion was
necessary, to find a fair maid of all work with all the splendor and
intellectual humility of a beautiful animal that would admire and obey
her master blindly.

Three days passed in which the painter and his wife hardly spoke to each
other. They looked at each other askance, humbled and broken by this
domestic trouble. But the solitude in which they lived, the necessity of
remaining together made the reconciliation imperative. She was the first
to speak, as if she were terrified by the sadness and