disappeared without a word of explanation, when she loved him
more than ever, when she was ready to give up everything, to cause a
perfect scandal, by coming to live with him, as his companion, his
slave? And her letters, her poor letters, neglected, unopened, as if
they were annoying requests for alms. She had spent the nights awake,
putting her whole soul into their pages! And in her accent there was a
tremble of literary pique, of bitterness, that all the pretty things,
which she wrote down with a smile of satisfaction after long reflection,
remained unknown. Men! Their selfishness and cruelty! How stupid women
were to worship them!

She continued to weep and Renovales looked at her as if she were another
woman. She seemed ridiculous to him in that grief, which distorted her
face, which made her ugly, destroying her smiling, doll-like
impassibility.

He tried to offer excuses, that he might not seem cruel by keeping
silent, but they lacked warmth and the desire to carry conviction. He
was working hard; it was time for him to return to his former life of
creative activity. She forgot that he was an artist, a master of some
reputation, who had his duty to the public. He was not like those young
fops who could devote the whole day to her and pass their life at her
feet, like enamored pages.

"We must be serious, Concha," he added with pedantic coldness. "Life is
not play. I must work and I am working. I haven't been out of here for
I don't know how many days."

She stood up angrily, took her hands from her eyes, looked at him,
rebuking him. He lied; he had been out and it had never occurred to him
to come to her house for a moment.

"Just to say 'Good morning,' nothing more. So that I may see you for an
instant, Mariano, long enough to be sure that you are the same, that you
still love me. But you have gone out often; you have been seen. I have
my detectives who tell me everything. You are too well known to pass
unnoticed. You have been in the Museo del Prado mornings. You have been
seen gazing at a picture of Goya's, a nude, for hours at a time, like an
idiot. Your hobby is coming back again, Mariano! And it hasn't occurred
to you to come and see me; you haven't answered my letters. You feel
proud, it seems, content with being loved, and submit to being worshiped
like an idol, certain that the more uncivil you are, the more you will
be loved. Oh, these men! These artists!"

She sobbed, but her voice no longer pr