Rafael found Leonora much changed after his months of absence.

She was dressed simply, like any young lady of the city; her face and hands, so white and marble-like before, had taken on the golden transparency of ripened grain under the continued caress of the Valencian sun.  Her slender fingers were bare of all rings, and her pink ears were not, as formerly, a-gleam with thick clusters of diamonds.

“I’ve become a regular peasant, haven’t I?” she said, as if she could read in Rafael’s eyes his astonishment at the transformation she had undergone.  “It’s life in the open that works such miracles:  today one frill, tomorrow another, and a woman eventually gets rid of everything that was once a part of her body almost.  I feel better this way....  Would you believe it?  I’ve actually deserted my dressing-table, and the perfume I used lies all forsaken and forlorn.  Fresh water, plenty of fresh water ... that’s what I like.  I’m a long way from the Leonora who had to paint herself every night like a clown before she could appear before an audience.  Take a good look at me!  Well ... what do you think?  You might mistake me for one of your vassals almost, eh?  I’ll bet that if I had gone out this morning to join your demonstration at the station you wouldn’t have recognized me in the crowd.”

Rafael was going to say—­and quite seriously, too—­that he thought her more beautiful than ever.  Leonora seemed to have descended from her height and drawn closer to him.  But she guessed what was coming, and to forestall any compliments, hastened to resume control of the conversation.

“Now don’t say you like me better this way.  What nonsense!  Remember, you come from Madrid, from real elegance, a world you did not know before!...  But, to tell the truth, I like this simplicity; and the important thing in life is to please yourself, isn’t it?  It was a slow transformation, but an irresistible one; this country life gradually filled me with its peace and calm; it went to my head like a bland delicious wine.  I just sleep and sleep, living the life of a human animal, free from every emotion, and quite willing never to wake up again.  Why, Rafaelito!  If nothing extraordinary happens and the devil doesn’t give an unexpected tug at my sleeve, I can conceive of staying on here forever.  I think of the outer world as a sailor must of the sea, when he finds himself all cosy at home after a voyage of continuous tempest.”

“That’s right, do stay,” said Rafael.  “You can’t imagine how I worried up in Madrid wondering whether or not I’d find you here on my return.”

“Don’t go telling any fibs,” said Leonora, gently, smiling with just a suggestion of gratification.  “Do you think we haven’t been following your doings in Madrid?  Though you never were a friend, exactly, of good old Cupido, you’ve been writing him frequently—­and all sorts of nonsense; just as a pretext for the really important thing—­the postscript, with your regards to the ‘illustrious artist,’ sure to provoke the consoling reply that the ‘illustrious artist’ was still here.  How those letters made me laugh!”