t of protest.

"Why should I not be as happy as that boy? Haven't I a right to it?
Concha, you do not know who I am; you forget it, accustomed as you are
to treat me like a child. I am Renovales, the painter, the famous
master. I am known all over the world."

And he spoke of his fame with brutal indelicacy, growing more and more
irritated at her coldness, displaying his renown like a mantle of light
that should blind women and make them fall at his feet. And a man like
him had to submit to being put off for that simpleton of a doctor?

The countess smiled with pity. Her eyes, too, revealed a sort of
compassion. The fool! The child! How absurd men of talent were!

"Yes, you are a great man, master. That is why I am proud of your
friendship. I even admit that it gives me some importance. I like you. I
feel admiration for you."

"No, not admiration, Concha, love! To belong to each other! Complete
love."

She continued to laugh.

"Oh, my boy; Love!"

Her eyes seemed to speak to him ironically. Love does not distinguish
talents; it is ignorant and therefore boasts of its blindness. It only
perceives the fragrance of youth, of life in its flower.

"We shall be friends, Mariano, friends and nothing more. You will grow
accustomed to it and find our affection dear. Don't be material; it
doesn't seem as if you were an artist. Idealism, master, that is what
you need."

And she continued to talk to him from the heights of her pity, until
they parted near the place where her carriage was waiting for her.

"Friends, Mariano, nothing more than friends, but true friends."

When Concha had gone, Renovales walked in the shadows of the twilight,
gesticulating and clenching his fists, until he left Moncloa. Finding
himself alone, he was again filled with wrath and insulted the countess
mentally, now that he was free from the loving subjection that he
suffered in her presence. How she amused herself with him! How his
friends would laugh to see him helplessly submissive to that woman who
had belonged to so many! His pride made him insist on conquering her,
at any cost, even of humiliation and brutality. It was an affair of
honor to make her his, even if it were only once, and then to take
revenge by repelling her, throwing her at his feet, and saying with a
sovereign air, "That is what I do to people who resist me."

But then he realized his weakness. He would always be beaten by that
woman who looked at him coldly, who neve