She looked around with a professional smile, eager to end the unpleasant situation as soon as possible.
"When you will. Where shall I undress?"
Renovales started at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten that that image could speak. The simplicity with which she dispensed with explanations surprised him likewise.
His son-in-law did things well; he had brought her well coached, callous to all surprises.
The master showed her the way to the model's room and remained outside, prudently, turning his head without knowing why, so as not to see through the half-opened door. There was a long silence, broken by the rustle of falling clothes, the metallic click of buttons and hooks. Suddenly her voice came to the master, smothered, distant with a sort of timidity.
"My stockings too? Must I take them off?"
Renovales knew this objection of all models when they undressed for the first time. López de Sosa, carrying his desire of pleasing his father to the extreme, had spoken to her of giving her body wholly and she undressed without asking any further explanations, with the calm of accepted duty, thinking that her presence there was absurd for any other purpose.
The painter came out of his silence; he called to her uneasily. She must not stay undressed. In the room there were clothes for her to put on. And without turning his head, reaching his arm through the half open door he pointed out blindly what he had left. There was a pink dress, a hat, shoes, stockings, a shirt.
Pepita protested when she saw these cast-off garments, showing an aversion to putting on those underclothes which seemed worn and old.
"The shirt, too? The stockings? No, the dress is enough."