riano. Stop! You're hurting me! I'll call!"

And she called, realizing her weakness, seeing that she was on the point
of being overcome in his fierce, masterly grasp. The electric bell
sounded out of the maze of corridors and rooms and the door opened.
Marie entered in a black dress with a white apron and a lace cap,
discreet and silent. Her pale, smiling face, accustomed to see
everything, to guess everything, did not reveal the slightest
impression.

The countess stretched out her hand to Renovales, calmly and
affectionately, as if the entrance of the maid had found her saying
good-by. She was sorry that he must go so soon, she would see him in the
evening at the Opera.

When the painter breathed the air of the street and jostled against the
people, he felt as if he were awakening from a nightmare. He loathed
himself. "You're showing off finely, master." His weakness that made him
give in to all of the countess's demands, his base acquiescence in
serving as an intermediary between her and her lover was sickening now.
But he still felt the touch of her kiss on his forehead; he still
breathed the atmosphere of the bedroom, heavy with perfume. Optimism
overcame him. The affair was not going badly. However disagreeable the
path was, it would lead to the realization of his desire.

Many evenings Renovales went to the Opera, in obedience to Concha, who
wanted to see him, and spent whole acts in the back of her box,
conversing with her. Milita laughed at this change in the habits of her
father, who used to go to bed early, so as to be able to work early in
the morning. She was the one who, charged with the household affairs on
account of her mother's constant illness, helped him to put on his
dress-coat, and amid caresses and laughter combed his hair and adjusted
his tie.

"Papa, dear. I shouldn't know you, you're getting dissipated. When are
you going to take me with you?"

The artist excused himself seriously. It was a duty of his profession;
artists must go into society. And as for taking her with him--some other
time. He had to go alone this time, he had to talk to a great many
people at the theater.

Another change took place in him that provoked joyful comments on the
part of Milita. Papa was getting young.

Under irreverent trimmings, every week his hair became shorter, his
beard diminished until only a light remnant remained of that tangled
growth that gave him such a ferocious appearance. He did not want t