im--the novelty of this
new world that till now he had not even known by hearsay; a topsy-turvy,
unmoral world where, as in art, beauty formed the only criterion of
worth; a world where women sold themselves for an opera-box.

All this time Alicia Pardo had been studying Enrique. The downright
frankness of her look was alarming in its amusement. Enrique's extreme
youth; the simplicity of his answers; the Apollo-like perfection of his
features; the obsidian hue of his wavy hair which marked him as from the
south of Spain; the black ardor of eyes, that in their eager curiosity
contrasted with the boyish smoothness of his face; yes, even his
proneness to blush, had all greatly interested her. Above all, Alicia
found her attention wakened by the artistic spirit in him, which had
wept at the sound of the music. Alicia had never seen men weep except
through jealousy, or through some other even baser and more ignoble
emotion. Therefore in the tears of this boy she discovered something
wonderful and great.

And through her little head, all filled with curious whims, the idea
drifted that it would be passing strange and sweet to let herself be
loved by such a boy. Suddenly she exclaimed:

"What are _you_ doing in Madrid?"

"I'm studying."

"Ah, indeed? A student, eh? I read a novel, a while ago, that I liked
very much indeed. The hero was a student. Quite a coincidence, eh?"

Darles nodded "Yes." The childish simplicity of the remark amazed him.
Goldie went on:

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Honest and true?"

"Fact! Why? Maybe I look older?"

"No, you don't. Younger, I think. I'm not quite nineteen, but _I_ do
look older."

Don Manuel had opened a newspaper, and was reading the latest market
quotations. Alicia felt a desire to know the boy's name. She asked him
what it was.

"Enrique?" she repeated. "That's a pretty name. Very!"

Then she grew silent a while, remembering all the Enriques she had ever
known--and there had been plenty of them. She recalled they'd all been
nice. Thus, reviewing her life-history, she reached her childish years;
quiet years of peace, lived in the Virgilian simplicity of the country.
And she seemed to see in this boy, innocent, healthy and sun-browned,
something of what she herself had been.

Quite beside himself with new emotions, ecstatic and open-mouthed, the
student looked at her, too, like a man studying some unusually beautiful
work of art.

Now many footfalls echoed in