that woman.

He expected her that afternoon; but he would not feel surprised if she
failed to keep her appointment. For nearly a month he had been unable to
get in two days in succession. She was always engaged; she was president
of societies for the education and emancipation of woman; she was
constantly planning festivals and raffles; the activity of a tired woman
of society, the fluttering of a wild bird that made her want to be
everywhere at the same time, without the will to withdraw when once she
was started in the current of feminine excitement. Suddenly the painter
whose eyes were fixed on the portrait gave a cry of enthusiasm.

"What a woman, Pepe! What a woman to paint!"

His eyes seemed to lay bare the beauty that stood on the canvas in all
its aristocratic grandeur. They strove to penetrate the mystery of that
covering of lace and silk, to see the color and the lines of the form
that was hardly revealed through the gown. This mental reconstruction
was helped by the bare shoulders and the curve of her breasts that
seemed to tremble at the edge of her dress, separated by a line of soft
shadow.

"That's just what I told your wife," said the Bohemian naively. "If you
paint beautiful women, like the countess, it is merely for the sake of
painting them and not that you would think of seeing in them anything
more than a model."

"Aha! So my wife has been talking to you about that!"

Cotoner hastened to set his mind at ease, fearing his digestion might be
disturbed. A mere trifle, nervousness on the part of poor Josephina, who
saw the dark side of everything in her illness.

She had referred during the luncheon to the Alberca woman and her
portrait. She did not seem to be very fond of her, in spite of the fact
that she had been her companion in boarding-school. She felt as other
women did; the countess was an enemy, who inspired them with fear. But
he had calmed her and finally succeeded in making her smile faintly.
There was no use in talking about that any longer.

But Renovales did not share his friend's optimism. He was well aware of
his wife's state of mind; he understood now the motive that had made her
flee from the table, to take refuge upstairs and to weep and long for
death. She hated Concha as she did all the women who entered his studio.
But this impression of sadness did not last very long in the painter; he
was used to his wife's susceptibility. Besides, the consciousness of his
faithfulness c