ginning to crack with the swelling of the sap.
It was a pity that the camera craze filled the woods with so many people
who went back and forth with their outfits, sullying the purity of the
snow.

The countess was as interested as a child. She wanted to see that, she
would go the next day. Her friends tried in vain to dissuade her,
telling her the weather would probably change presently. To-morrow the
sun would come out, the snow would melt; these unexpected storms were
characteristic of the fickle climate of Madrid.

"It makes no difference," said Concha obstinately, "I've got the idea
into my head. It's years since I have seen it. My life is such a busy
one."

She would go to see the thaw in the morning; no, not in the morning. She
got up late and had to receive all those Women's Rights ladies that came
to consult her. In the afternoon, she would go after luncheon. It was
too bad that Renovales worked at that time and could not go with her. He
could appreciate landscapes so well with his artist's eyes and had often
spoken to her of the sunset from the palace of Moncloa, a sight almost
equal to the one you can see in Rome from the Pinzio at dusk. The
painter smiled gallantly. He would try to be at Moncloa the next day;
they would meet.

The countess seemed to take sudden fright at this promise and glanced at
Doctor Monteverde. But she was disappointed in her hope of being
censured for her fickleness and unfaithfulness, for the doctor remained
indifferent.

Lucky doctor! How Renovales hated him. He was a young man, as fair and
as fragile as a porcelain figure, a combination of such striking
beauties that his face was almost a caricature. His hair, parted in two
waves over his pale forehead, was black, very black and shining with
bluish reflections, his eyes, as soft as velvet, showed the read spot of
the lachrymal on the polished ivory of the cornea, veritable odalisque
eyes, his bright red lips showed under his bristly mustache, his
complexion was as pale as a camellia, and his teeth flashed like pearl.
Concha looked at him with ecstatic devotion, talked with her eyes on
him, consulting him with her glance, lamenting inwardly his lack of
mastery, eager to be his slave, to be corrected by him in all the
caprices of her giddy character.

Renovales scorned him, questioning his manhood, making the most
atrocious comments on him in his rough fashion.

He was a doctor of science and was waiting for a chair at Madri