was awake. He could not hear her breathing; she seemed dead
in the profound darkness, but he fancied her with her eyes open, a scowl
on her forehead and he felt the fear of a man who has a presentiment of
danger in the mystery of the darkness.

Renovales too remained motionless, taking care not to touch again that
form which silently repelled him. The sincerity of his repentance
brought him a sort of consolation. Never again would he forget his wife,
his daughter, his respectability.

He would give up forever the longings of youth, that recklessness, that
thirst for enjoying all the pleasures of life. His lot was cast; he
would continue to be what he always had been. He would paint portraits
and everything that was given to him as a commission; he would please
the public; he would make more money, he would adapt his art to meet his
wife's jealous demands, that she might live in peace; he would scoff at
that phantom of human ambition which men call glory. Glory! A lottery,
where the only chance for a prize depended on the tastes of people still
to be born! Who knew what the artistic inclinations of the future would
be? Perhaps it would appreciate what he was now producing with such
loathing; perhaps it would laugh scornfully at what he wanted to paint.
The only thing of importance was to live in peace, as long as he could
be surrounded by happiness. His daughter would marry. Perhaps her
husband would be his favorite pupil, that Soldevilla, so polite, so
courteous, who was mad over the mischievous Milita. If it was not he, it
would be Lopez de Sosa, a crazy fellow, in love with his automobiles,
who pleased Josephina more than the pupil because he had not committed
the sin of showing talent and devoting himself to painting. He would
have grandchildren, his beard would grow white, he would have the
majesty of an Eternal Father and Josephina, cared for by him, restored
to health by an atmosphere of affection, would grow old too, freed from
her nervous troubles.

The painter felt allured by this picture of patriarchal happiness. He
would go out of the world without having tasted the best fruits which
life offers, but still with the peace of a soul that does not know the
great heat of passion.

Lulled by these illusions, the artist was sinking into sleep. He saw in
the darkness, the image of his calm old age, with rosy wrinkles and
silvery hair, at his side a sprightly little old lady, healthy and
attractive, with wavy hai