eserved the irritated tone of the
first few moments. The certainty that she did not have to struggle with
the influence of another woman softened her pride, leaving in her only
the gentle complaint of a victim who is eager to sacrifice herself anew.

"But sit down," she exclaimed amid her sobs, pointing to a place on the
couch beside her. "Don't stand up. You look as if you wanted me to go
away."

The painter sat down timidly, taking care not to touch her, avoiding
those hands which reached out to him, longing for a pretext to seize
him. He saw her desire to weep on his shoulder, to forget everything,
and to banish her last tears with a smile. That was what always
happened, but Renovales, knowing the game, drew back roughly. That must
not begin again; it could, not be repeated, even if he wanted to. He
must tell her the truth at any cost, end it forever, throw off the
burden from his shoulders.

He spoke hoarsely, stammering, with his eyes on the floor, not daring to
lift them for fear of meeting Concha's which he felt were fixed upon
him.

For several days he had been meaning to write to her. He had been afraid
that he might not express his ideas clearly and so he had put off the
letter until the next day. Now he was glad she had come; he rejoiced at
the weakness of his valet, in letting her enter.

They must talk like good comrades who examine the future together. It
was time to put an end to their folly. They would be what Concha once
desired, friends--good friends. She was beautiful; she still had the
freshness of youth, but time leaves its mark, and he felt that he was
getting old; he looked at life from a height, as we look at the water of
a stream, without dipping into it.

Concha listened to him in astonishment, refusing to understand his
words. What did these scruples mean? After some digressions, the painter
spoke remorsefully of his friend, the Count of Alberca, a man whom he
respected for his very guilelessness. His conscience rose in protest at
the simple admiration of the good man. This daring deceit in his own
house, under his own roof, was infamous. He could not go on; they must
purify themselves from the past by being good friends, must say good-by
as lovers, without spite or antipathy, grateful to each other for the
happy past, taking with them, like dead lovers, their pleasant memories.

Concha's laugh, nervous, sarcastic, insolent, interrupted the artist.
Her cruel spirit of fun was aroused a