which stood on a table of colored marble, with its back reflected in a
tall, Venetian mirror.

It was already three. The master wondered if she was not going to come.
Quarter past three,--half-past three. No, she was not coming; it was
past the time. Those women who live amid obligations and demands,
without a minute to themselves!

Suddenly he heard steps and Cotoner entered.

"She is here; here she comes. Good luck, master. Have a good time! I
guess you have imposed on me long enough and will not expect me to
stay."

He went out waving him an ironical farewell and a little later
Renovales heard Lopez de Sosa's voice, approaching slowly, explaining to
his companion the pictures and furniture which attracted her attention.

They entered. The "Bella Fregolina" looked astonished; she seemed
intimidated by the majestic silence of the studio. What a big, princely
house, so different from all those she had seen! That ancient, solid,
historic luxury with its rare furniture filled her with fear! She looked
at Renovales with great respect. He seemed to her more distinguished
than that other man whom she had seen indistinctly in the orchestra of
her little theater. He was awe-inspiring, as if he were a great
personage, different from all the men with whom she had had to do. To
her fear was added a sort of admiration. How much money that old boy
must have, living in such style!

Renovales, too, was deeply moved when he saw her so close at hand.

At first he hesitated. Was she really like the other? The paint on her
face disconcerted him--the layer of rouge with black lines about the
eyes--visible through the veil. The _other_ did not paint. But when he
looked at her eyes, the striking resemblance rose again, and starting
from them he gradually restored the beloved face under the layers of
pomade.

The "star" examined the canvases which covered the walls. How pretty!
And did this gentleman do all that? She wanted to see herself like that,
proud and beautiful in a canvas. Did he truly want to paint her? And she
drew herself up vainly, delighted that people thought she was beautiful,
that she would enjoy the emotion until then unknown of seeing her image
reproduced by a great artist.

Lopez de Sosa excused himself to his father-in-law. She was to blame for
their being late. You could never get a woman like that to hurry. She
went to bed at daybreak; he had found her in bed.

Then he said good-by, understanding the embar