if at all, gave himself the benefit of the doubt and smiled inwardly.
When the omelette was browned, Olga transferred it deftly to a platter under the grill and accompanied Peñaverde to the balcony.
On her return her movements were even more brisk, and they were soon seated at a small table in the bandbox salon.
"Why are all these stupid men enraged to have me pose for them?" she half soliloquized, with an anger that was very real, though Grover felt it to be directed at an object which hadn't been defined. She broke off a neat slice of bread which she began to make fun of, calling it severe and English.
"The answer is easy," Grover replied. The painter's visit had brought ghosts into the room and created an uncomfortable hiatus.
Now that she was at rest, a reflective mood was overtaking her. "Though it's bad enough," she was saying, almost as though he were not present, "to be obliged to sit in this stuffy house and boil coffee while my Swede splits blocks of marble. Ah, those statues—they stupify me; they will be the death of me. That one of the woman holding in her hand the scales of justice! Grands dieux! . . . What do you say about it, Prince? Hein, the prince there, who sits and thinks."
"I'm thinking, 'poor Oscar'!"
"Pas si pauvre que ça, va! He'll look a long while
