Then, with a sudden start, he kissed it, almost bit it.
The countess seemed to awake and stood up, proudly, angrily.
"That's childish, Mariano. It isn't fair."
But in a moment she laughed with her cruel laugh, as if she pitied the confusion that Renovales showed when he saw her anger. "You are pardoned, master. A kiss on the hand means nothing. It is the conventional thing. Many men kiss my hand."
And this indifference was a bitter torment for the artist, who considered that his kiss was a sign of possession.
The countess continued to search in the darkness, repeating in an irritated voice:
"Light, turn on the light. Where in the world is the button?"
The light was turned on without Mariano's moving, before she found the button she was looking for. Three clusters of electric lights flashed out on the ceiling of the studio, and their crowns of white needles, brought out of the shadows the golden picture frames, the brilliant tapestries, the shining arms, the showy furniture and the bright-colored paintings.
They both blinked, blinded by the sudden brightness.
"Good evening," said a honeyed voice from the doorway.