e satisfied with this joy of a father's love. He longed for something
more and he could not find it in the companion of his life, always ill,
with her nerves constantly on edge. Besides, she did not understand him.
She never would understand him; she was a burden who was crushing his
talent.

Their union was based merely on friendship, on mutual consideration for
the suffering they had undergone together. He, too, had been deceived in
taking for love what was only an impulse of youthful attraction. He
needed a true passion; to live close to a soul that was akin to his, to
love a woman who was his superior, who could understand him and
encourage him in his bold projects, who could sacrifice her commonplace
prejudices to the demands of art.

He spoke vehemently, with his eyes fixed on Concha's eyes that shone
with light from the window.

But Renovales was interrupted by a cruel, ironical laugh, while the
countess pushed back her chair, as if to avoid the artist who slowly
leaned forward toward her.

"Look out, you're slipping, Mariano! I see it coming. A little more and
you would have made me a confession. Heavens! These men! You can't talk
to them like a good friend, show them any confidence without their
beginning to talk love on the spot. If I would let you, in less than a
minute you would tell me that I am your ideal, that you worship me."

Renovales, who had moved away from her, recovering his sternness, felt
cut by that mocking laugh and said in a quiet tone:

"And what if it were true? What if I loved you?"

The laugh of the countess rang out again, but forced, false, with a tone
that seemed to tear the artist's breast.

"Just what I expected! The confession I spoke of! That's the third one
I've received to-day. But isn't it possible to talk with a man of
anything but love?"

She was already on her feet, looking around for her hat, for she could
not remember where she had left it.

"I'm going, _cher maitre_. It isn't safe to stay here. I'll try to come
earlier next time so that the twilight won't catch us. It's a
treacherous hour; the moment of the greatest follies."

The painter objected to her leaving. Her carriage had not yet come. She
could wait a few minutes longer. He promised to be quiet, not to talk to
her, as long as it seemed to displease her.

The countess remained, but she would not sit down in the chair. She
walked around the studio for a few moments and finally opened the organ
that sto