woman's curiosity to
recognize the blue envelopes with white borders, whose sealed ends stuck
out, untouched, from the pile of cards. The last straw! Her paleness
grew intense, almost greenish, and she started forward with such a rush
that the servant could not stop her and was left behind her, dejected,
confused, fearful of his master's wrath.

Renovales, alarmed by the sharp click of heels on the hard floor, and
the rustling of skirts, turned toward the door just as the countess made
her entrance with a dramatic expression.

"It's me."

"You? You, dear?"

Excitement, surprise, fear made the master stammer.

"Sit down," he said coldly.

She sat down on a couch and the artist remained standing in front of
her.

They looked at each other as if they did not recognize each other after
this absence of weeks which weighed on their memories as if it were of
years.

Renovales looked at her coldly, without the least tremble of desire, as
if it were an ordinary visitor whom he must get rid of as soon as
possible. He was surprised at her greenish pallor, at her mouth, drawn
with irritation, at her hard eyes which flashed yellow flames, at her
nose which curved down to her upper lip. She was angry, but when her
eyes fell on him, they lost their hardness.

Her woman's instinct was calmed when she gazed at him. He, too, looked
different in the carelessness of the seclusion; his hair tangled,
revealing the preoccupation, the fixed, absorbing idea, which made him
neglect the neatness of his person.

Her jealousy vanished instantly, her cruel suspicion that she would
surprise him in love with another woman, with the fickleness of an
artist. She knew the external evidence of love, the necessity a man
feels of making himself attractive, refining the care of his dress.

She surveyed his neglect with satisfaction, noticing his dirty clothes,
his long fingernails, stained with paint, all the details which revealed
lack of tidiness, forgetfulness of his person. No doubt it was a passing
artist's whim, a craze for work, but they did not reveal what she had
suspected.

In spite of this calming certainty, as Concha was ready to shed the
tears which were all prepared, waiting impatiently on the edge of her
eyelids, she raised her hands to her eyes, curling up on one end of the
couch, with a tragic expression. She was very unhappy; she was suffering
terribly. She had passed several horrible weeks. What was the matter?
Why had he