When the master saw him so serious and silent that afternoon after
luncheon he wanted to know what was worrying him. Had they complained of
his restoration? Was his money gone? Cotoner shook his head. It was not
his affairs; he was worrying over Josephina's condition. Had he not
noticed her?
Renovales shrugged his shoulders. It was the usual trouble:
neurasthenia, diabetes, all those chronic ailments of which she did not
want to be cured, refusing to obey the physicians. She was thinner, but
her nerves seemed calmer; she cried less; she maintained a sad silence,
simply wanting to be alone and stay in a corner, staring into space.
Cotoner shook his head again. Renovales' optimism was not to be wondered
at.
"You are leading a strange life, Mariano. Since I came back from my
trip, you are a different man; I wouldn't know you. Once, you could not
live without painting and now you spend weeks at a time without taking
up a brush. You smoke, sing, walk up and down the studio and all at once
rush off, out of the house and go--well. I know where, and perhaps your
wife suspects it. You seem to be having a good time, master. The deuce
take the rest! But, man alive, come down from the clouds. See what is
around you; have some charity."
And good Cotoner complained bitterly of the life the master was
leading--disturbed by sudden impatience and hasty departures, from which
he returned absent-minded, with a faint smile on his lips and a vague
look in his eyes, as if he still relished the feast of memories he
carried in his mind.
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