Matilde unlocked her door when she felt that she was once more mistress of herself and able to face the world.  A woman does not lead the life she had led for years without at least knowing herself well and understanding exactly how far she can rely upon her face and voice.  She knew when she rose from the sofa that she could go through the remainder of the day well enough; and though her eyes gleamed hungrily, there was a cynical smile on her lips as she turned over the red cushion, on which there were marks where she had bitten it, and softly unlocked the door.  She went into her dressing-room, beyond, for a moment, to smooth her hair.  That was all, for there had been no tears in her eyes.

When she returned, she was surprised to see her husband standing before the window, with his back to the broad sunshine, peacefully smoking a cigarette.  The smoke curled lazily about his grey head, in the quiet air, as he allowed it to issue from his parted lips almost without the help of his breath.  His face was like stone, but as he opened his mouth to let out the wreathing smoke, his lips smiled in an unnatural way.  Matilde half unconsciously compared him to one of those grimacing Chinese monsters of grey porcelain, made for burning incense and perfumes, from whose stony jaws the thick smoke comes out on the right and left in slowly curling strings.  His expression did not change when he saw her, and as he stood with his back to the light, his small eyes were quite invisible in his face.

“What news?” he asked calmly, as he closed the door and came forward into the room.  “Is all going well?”

His breath, as he spoke, blew the clouds of smoke from his face in thin puffs.

“If you wish things to go well,” answered Matilde, “leave everything to me.  Do not interfere.  You have an unlucky hand.”

She sat down in the corner of the sofa, taking a book from the table, but not yet opening it.  He smoked in silence for a moment.

“Yes,” he said, presently.  “I have been unfortunate.  But I have great confidence in you, Matilde—­great confidence.”

“That is fortunate,” replied his wife, coldly.  “It would be hard, if there were no confidence on either side.”

“Yes.  Of course, you have none in me?”

He laughed suddenly, and the sound was jarring and startling, like the unexpected breaking of plates in a quiet room.  Matilde’s lips quivered and her brow contracted spasmodically.  She hated his voice at all times, as she hated him and all that belonged to him and his being; but during the past twenty-four hours he had developed this strange laugh which set her teeth on edge every time she heard it.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked impatiently.  “Why do you laugh in that way?”

“Did I laugh?” he inquired, by way of answer.  “It was unconscious.  But my voice was never musical.  However, in the present state of our family affairs, a little laughter might divert our thoughts.  Have you seen Bosio to-day?  Why did he not come to luncheon?  I hope he is not ill, just at this moment.”