her eyes.

When she returned, she was surprised to see her husband standing before
the window, with his back to the broad sunshine, peacefully smoking a
cigarette. The smoke curled lazily about his grey head, in the quiet
air, as he allowed it to issue from his parted lips almost without the
help of his breath. His face was like stone, but as he opened his mouth
to let out the wreathing smoke, his lips smiled in an unnatural way.
Matilde half unconsciously compared him to one of those grimacing
Chinese monsters of grey porcelain, made for burning incense and
perfumes, from whose stony jaws the thick smoke comes out on the right
and left in slowly curling strings. His expression did not change when
he saw her, and as he stood with his back to the light, his small eyes
were quite invisible in his face.

"What news?" he asked calmly, as he closed the door and came forward
into the room. "Is all going well?"

His breath, as he spoke, blew the clouds of smoke from his face in thin
puffs.

"If you wish things to go well," answered Matilde, "leave everything to
me. Do not interfere. You have an unlucky hand."

She sat down in the corner of the sofa, taking a book from the table,
but not yet opening it. He smoked in silence for a moment.

"Yes," he said, presently. "I have been unfortunate. But I have great
confidence in you, Matilde--great confidence."

"That is fortunate," replied his wife, coldly. "It would be hard, if
there were no confidence on either side."

"Yes. Of course, you have none in me?"

He laughed suddenly, and the sound was jarring and startling, like the
unexpected breaking of plates in a quiet room. Matilde's lips quivered
and her brow contracted spasmodically. She hated his voice at all times,
as she hated him and all that belonged to him and his being; but during
the past twenty-four hours he had developed this strange laugh which set
her teeth on edge every time she heard it.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked impatiently. "Why do you laugh
in that way?"

"Did I laugh?" he inquired, by way of answer. "It was unconscious. But
my voice was never musical. However, in the present state of our family
affairs, a little laughter might divert our thoughts. Have you seen
Bosio to-day? Why did he not come to luncheon? I hope he is not ill,
just at this moment."

Matilda 'placed' her voice carefully, as a singer would do, before she
answered.

"He is not ill," she said. "He was here an hour