had noticed on the master's face, when she entered the
studio; she thought that now she saw in his eyes a spark of that same
gleam.

Suddenly she felt afraid; afraid of the man who looked at her in silence
as if he did not know her and toward whom she felt the same strangeness.

Still she had for him a glance of sympathy, of that tenderness which
every woman feels in the presence of unhappiness, even if it afflicts a
stranger. Poor Mariano! All was over between them; she took care not to
speak intimately to him; she held out her gloved hand with the gesture
of an unapproachable lady. For a long time they stood in this position,
speaking only with their eyes.

"Good-by, master; take care of yourself! Don't bother to come with me. I
know the way. Go on with your work. Paint----"

Her heels clicked nervously on the waxed floor as she left the room,
which she was never to enter again. The swish of her skirts scattered
their wake of perfumes in the studio for the last time.

Renovales breathed more freely when he was left alone. He had ended
forever the error of his life. The only thing in this visit that left a
sting was the countess's hesitation before the portrait. She had
recognized it sooner than Cotoner, but she too had hesitated. No one
remembered Josephina; he alone kept her image.

That same afternoon, before his old friend came, the master received
another call. His daughter appeared in the studio. Renovates had
divined that it was she before she entered, by the whirl of joy and
overflowing life which seemed to precede her.

She had come to see him; she had promised him a visit months ago. And
her father smiled indulgently, recalling some of her complaints when he
last visited her. Just to see him?

Milita pretended to be absorbed in examining the studio which she had
not entered for a long time.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's mamma!"

She looked at the picture with astonishment, but the master seemed
pleased at the readiness with which she had recognized her. At last, his
daughter! The instinct of blood! The poor master did not see the hasty
glance at the other portraits which had guided the girl in her
induction.

"Do you like it? Is it she?" he asked as anxiously as a novice.

Milita answered rather vaguely. Yes, it was good; perhaps a little more
beautiful than she was. She never knew her like that.

"That is true," said the master, "You never saw her in her good days.
But she was like that