Leonora, standing on tiptoe under an old tree, with her back toward Rafael, was looking for a particularly choice orange among the dense branches.  As she swayed this way and that, the proud, graceful curves of her vigorous slenderness became more beautiful than ever.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” the young man said, dispiritedly.

Leonora turned around.  She had found her orange and was peeling it with her long pink nails.

“Tomorrow?” she said, smiling.  “Everything comes if you wait long enough!...  The best of success to you, senor deputy.”

And bringing the fragrant fruit to her lips, she sank her white, glistening teeth into the golden pulp, closing her eyes rapturously, to sense the full warm sweetness of the juice.

Rafael stood there pale and trembling, as if something desperate were in his mind.

“Leonora!  Leonora!...  Surely you are not going to send me away like this?”

And then suddenly, carried away by a passion so long restrained, so long crushed under timidity and fear, he ran up to her, seized her hands and hungrily sought her lips.

“Oh!  What in the world are you up to, Rafael?...  How dare you!” she cried.  And with one thrust of her powerful arms she threw him back, staggering, against the orange-tree.  The young man stood there with lowered head, humiliation and shame written on every line of his face.

“You see, I’m a strong woman,” said Leonora, in a voice quivering with anger.  “None of your foolish tricks, or you’ll be sorry!”

She glared at him for a long time; but then gradually recovered her equanimity, and began to laugh at the pitiable spectacle before her.

“But what a child you are, Rafael!...  Is that what you call a friendly good-bye?...  How little you know me, silly!  You force matters, you do, I see.  Well just understand, I’m impregnable, unless I choose to be otherwise.  Why, men have died without being able to kiss so much as the tip of my fingers.  It’s time you were going, Rafael.  We’ll still be friends, of course....  But in case we are to see each other again, don’t forget what I tell you.  We are through with such nonsense once and for all.  Don’t waste your time.  I cannot be yours.  I’m tired of men; perhaps I hate them.  I have known the handsomest, the most elegant, the most famous of them all.  I have been almost a queen; queen ’on the left hand side,’ as the French say, but so much mistress of the situation that, had I cared to get mixed up in such vulgarity, I could have changed ministries and overturned thrones.  Men renowned in Europe for their elegance—­and their follies—­have grovelled at my feet, and I have treated them worse than I have treated you.  The most celebrated women have envied me and hated me—­copying my dresses and my poses.  And when, tired of all that brilliancy and noise, I said ‘Good-bye’ and came to this retreat, do you think it was to give myself to a village senorito, though a few hundred country bumpkins think he is a wonder?...  Oh, say, Rafael, really....”