heed; but hardly had he come to realize her sensual
appeal when the flame of desire blazed up in him.

"There's a neat one for you!" thought he.

And he kept on looking at her, his vicious imagination dwelling on the
perfections of that carnal flower, soft and vibrant. His brown study
continued a while. Then suddenly, with the brusqueness of ill-temper, he
got up.

"Well, so long!" said he.

He stopped in the stairway to greet a neighbor and light a cigarette. By
the time he had reached the street-door he had forgotten all about
Rafaela. But, later, his desire once more awoke. At dinner he
dissimulated his observations of the young woman's bare arms. Strong and
well-molded they were, those arms, and under the cloth of her sleeves
rolled up above the elbow, the flesh swelled exuberantly.

"Hm! You haven't combed your hair, to-day," said Berlanga.

She answered with a laugh--one of those frankly voluptuous laughs that
women with fine teeth enjoy.

"You're right," said she. "You certainly notice everything. I didn't
have time."

"It don't matter," answered the gallant. "Pretty women always look best
that way, with their hair flying and their arms bare."

"You mean that, really?"

"I certainly do!"

"Then you've got the temperament and makings of a married man."

"_I_ have?"

"Sure!"

"How's that?"

She laughed again, gayly, coquettishly, adding:

"Because you already know that married women generally don't pay much
attention to their husbands. That's what hurts marriage--women not
caring how they look."

So they went on talking away, and all through their rather spicy
conversation, full of meaning, a mutual attraction began to make itself
felt. Silently this began sapping their will-power. At last the woman
glanced at her clock on the sideboard.

"Eight o'clock," said she. "I wonder what Amadeo's doing, now?"

"Well, that's according," answered Berlanga. "When did he get to
Bilbao?"

"This morning."

"Then he's probably been asleep part of the time, and now I guess he's
playing dominoes in some cafe. And we, meantime--we're here--you and
I----"

"And you don't feel very well, eh?" she asked.

"I?"

Looking at Rafaela with eloquent steadiness he slowly added:

"I feel a damn sight better than _he_ does!"

Then, while he drank his coffee, the silversmith laid out on the table
his board-money for that week. He began to count:

"Two and two's four--nine--eleven--thirty-eight pesetas. Rott