She came in with a great rustling of silks and laces, her least step accompanied by the frou-frou of her skirts, scattering various perfumes, like the breath of an exotic garden.
"Good afternoon, mon cher maître."
As she looked at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette, hanging from a gold chain, the gray amber of her eyes took on an insolent stare through the glasses, a strange expression, half caressing, half mocking.
He must pardon her for being so late. She was sorry for her lack of attention, but she was the busiest woman in Madrid. The things she had done since luncheon! Signing and examining papers with the secretary of the "Women's League," a conference with the carpenter and the foreman (two rough fellows who fairly devoured her with their eyes), who had charge of putting up the booths for the great fair for the benefit of destitute working women; a call on the president of the Cabinet, a somewhat dissolute old gentleman, in spite of his gravity, who received her with the airs of an old-fashioned gallant, kissing her hand, as they used to in a minuet.
"We have lost the afternoon, haven't we, maître? There's hardly sun enough to work by now. Besides, I didn't bring my maid to help me."
She pointed with her lorgnette to the door of an alcove that served as a dressing-room for the models and where she kept the evening gown and the flame-colored cloak in which he was painting her.
Renovales, after looking furtively at the entrance of the studio, assumed an arrogant air of swaggering gallantry, such as he used to have in his youth in Rome, free and obstreperous.
"You needn't give up on that account. If you will let me, I'll act as maid for you."
The countess began to laugh loudly, throwing back her head and shoulders, showing her white throat that shook with merriment.
"Oh, what a good joke! And how daring the master is getting. You don't know anything about such things, Renovales. All you can do is paint. You are not in practice."