At other times, following the course of her ideas, she would interrupt
the conversation, without noticing the irrelevancy of her words.
"But did you notice the doctor's hands? They're more delicate than mine!
They look like a woman's hands."
The painter was indignant at these demonstrations of Concha's that often
occurred in her husband's presence.
The calm of that honorable gentleman astounded him. Was the man blind?
And the count with fatherly good humor always said the same thing.
"That Concha! Did you ever hear such frankness! Don't mind her,
Monteverde, it's my wife's way, childishness."
The doctor would smile, flattered at the atmosphere of worship with
which the countess surrounded him.
He had written a book on the natural origin of animal organism, of which
the fair countess spoke enthusiastically. The painter observed this
change in her tastes with surprise and envy. No more music, nor verses,
nor plastic arts which had formerly occupied her flighty attention, that
was attracted by everything that shines or makes a noise. Now she looked
on the arts as pretty, insignificant toys that were fit to amuse only
the childhood of the human race. Times were changing, people must be
serious. Science, nothing but science; she was the protectress, the good
friend, the adviser of a scholar. And Renovales found famous books on
the tables and chairs, feverishly run through and laid aside because she
grew tired of them or could not understand them after the first impulse
of curiosity.
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