She continued to smile, but soon her look grew hard, her lips tightened and the shadow spread little by little across her face.
She fixed her eyes on the painter's as if she were scrutinizing his thoughts.
It was a lie. Her husband was flattering her; he thought he loved her, but only his flesh was faithful. The invincible enemy, the eternal beloved, was mistress of his mind.
Tortured by this mental unfaithfulness and by the rage which her helplessness produced, she would gradually fall into one of the nervous storms that broke out in a shower of tears and a thunder of insults and recriminations.
Renovales' life was a hell at the very time when he possessed the glory and wealth which he had dreamed of so many years, building on them his hope of happiness.
IV
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the painter went home after his luncheon with the Hungarian.
As he entered the dining-room, before going to the studio, he saw two women with their hats and veils on who looked as if they were getting ready to go out. One of them, as tall as the painter, threw her arms around his neck.
"Papa, dear, we waited for you until nearly two o'clock. Did you have a good luncheon?"