he picked up the palette and prepared the colors. There was
no need of changing her dress; he would make use of what little daylight
remained to work on the head.

Concha took off her hat and then, before the same Venetian mirror in
which the painter had looked at himself, began to touch up her hair. Her
arms curved around her golden head, while Renovales contemplated the
grace of her back, seeing at the same time her face and breast in the
glass. She hummed as she arranged her hair, with her eyes fixed on their
own reflection, not letting anything distract her in this important
operation.

That brilliant, striking golden hair was probably bleached. The painter
was sure of it, but it did not seem less beautiful to him on that
account. The beauties of Venice in the olden times used to dye their
hair.

The countess sat down in an armchair, a short distance from the easel.
She felt tired and as long as he was not going to paint anything but her
face, he would not be so cruel as to make her stand, as he did on days
of real sittings. Renovales answered with monosyllables and shrugs of
his shoulders. That was all right--for what they were going to do. An
afternoon lost. He would limit himself to working on her hair and her
forehead. She might take it easy, looking anywhere she wanted to.

The master did not feel any desire to work either. A dull anger
disturbed him; he was irritated by the ironical accent of the countess
who saw in him a man different from other men, a strange being who was
incapable of acting like the insipid young men who formed her court and
many of whom, according to common gossip, were her lovers. A strange
woman, provoking and cold! He felt like falling on her, in his rage at
her offence, and beating her with the same scorn that he would a low
woman, to make her feel his manly superiority.

Of all the ladies whose pictures he had painted, none had disturbed his
artistic calm as she had. He felt attracted by her mad jesting, by her
almost childish levity, and at the same time he hated her for the
pitying air with which she treated him. For her he was a good fellow,
but very commonplace, who by some rare caprice of Nature possessed the
gift of painting well.

Renovales returned this scorn by insulting her mentally. That Countess
of Alberca was a fine one. No wonder people talked about her. Perhaps
when she appeared in his studio, always in a hurry and out of breath,
she came from a private intervie