Rafael gazed after her, smiling indifferently in acknowledgment of the congratulations the town notables were heaping on him.  The alcalde—­the most hen-pecked husband in Alcira, according to his enemies—­affirmed with sparkling eyes that for a woman like that he was capable of doing almost any crazy thing.  And they all joined in a chorus of invidious praise, taking it for granted that Rafael was the artiste’s accepted lover; though the youth himself smiled bitterly at the thought of his real status with that wonderful woman.

And she vanished, finally, into the sea of heads at the other end of the market-place; though Rafael, from time to time, thought he could still make out a mass of golden hair rising above the chevelures of the other girls.  Willingly he would have followed; but Don Matias was at his side—­don Matias, the wealthy orange exporter, father of the wistful Remedios who was spending her days obediently at dona Bernarda’s side.

That gentleman, heavy of speech and heavier still of thought, was pestering Rafael with a lot of nonsense about the orange business, giving the young man advice on a new bill he had drawn up and wanted to have introduced in Congress—­a protectionist measure for Spanish oranges.  “Why, it will be the making of the city, boy!  Every mother’s son of us swimming in money!” as he guaranteed with his hand upon his heart.

But Rafael’s gaze was lost in the distant reaches of the Prado, to catch one more fleeting glimpse of a golden head of hair—­proof of Leonora’s presence still!  He found it hard to be courteous, even, to this man who, according to authentic rumor, was destined to be his father-in-law.  Of all the drawling trickling words only a few reached his ears, beating on his brain like monotonous hammer blows.  “Glasgow ...  Liverpool ... new markets ... lower railroad rates ...  The English agents are a set of thieves ...”

“Very well, let them go hang,” Rafael answered mentally.  And giving a mechanical “yes, yes!” to propositions he was not even hearing, he gazed away more intently than ever, fearing lest Leonora should already have gone.  He felt relieved, however, when a gap opened in the crowd and he could see the actress seated in a chair that had been offered her by a huckstress.  She was holding a child upon her knees, and talking with a tiny, wretched, sickly creature who looked to Rafael like the orchard-woman they had met at the hermitage.

“Well, what do you think of my plan?” don Matias asked.

“Excellent, magnificent, and well worthy of a man like you, who knows the question from top to bottom.  We’ll discuss the matter thoroughly when I return to the Cortes.”

And to avoid a second exposition, he patted the wealthy boor on the back, and wondered why in the world Fortune should have picked such a disgusting man to smile on.