er chair for days at a time.
Finding any sort of movement difficult, she liked to ride motionless in
that car that fairly ate up space, reaching distant suburbs of Madrid
without the least effort, as if she had not moved from the house.

"Have a good time," said the painter with a sort of joy at the prospect
of being left alone, completely alone, without the disturbance of
feeling his wife's hostility near him. "I entrust them to you,
Rafaelito; be careful, now."

And Rafaelito assumed an expression of protest, as if he were shocked
that anyone could doubt his skill. There was no danger with him.

"Aren't you coming, Don Mariano? Lay down your brushes for a while.
We're only going to the Pardo."

The painter declined; he had a great deal to do. He knew what it was,
and he did not like to go so fast. There was no pleasure in swallowing
space with your eyes almost closed, unable to see anything but a hazy
blur of the scenery, amid clouds of dust and crushed stone. He preferred
to look at the landscape calmly, without haste, with the reflective
quiet of the student. Besides he was out of place in things that did not
belong to his time; he was getting old and these frightful novelties did
not agree with him.

"Good-by, papa."

Milita, lifting her veil, put out her red, tempting lips, showing her
bright teeth as she smiled. After this kiss came the other, formal and
cold, exchanged with the indifference of habit, without any novelty
except that Josephina's mouth drew back from his, as if she wanted to
avoid any contact with him.

They went out, the mother leaning on Rafaelito's arm with a sort of
languor, as if she could hardly drag her weak body,--her pale face
unrelieved by the least sign of blood.

When Renovales found himself alone in the studio he would feel as happy
as a school-boy on a holiday. He worked with a lighter touch, he roared
out old songs, delighting to listen to the echoes that his voice
awakened in the high-studded rooms. Often when Cotoner came in, he would
surprise him by the serene shamelessness with which he sang some one of
the licentious songs he had learned in Rome, and the painter of the
Popes, smiling like a faun, joined in the chorus, applauding at the end
these ribald verses of the studio.

Tekli, the Hungarian, who sometimes spent an afternoon with him, had
departed for his native land with his copy of _Las Meninas_, but not
before lifting Renovales' hands several times to his heart