d already feel the
exotic charm that lingers around harbors and great railroad terminals.
Everything about the place, from the macaroni of the lunch, and the
Chianti in its straw-covered, heavy-paunched bottle, to the musical,
incorrect Spanish of the hotel-proprietors--fleshy, massive men with
huge mustaches in Victor Emmanuel style--spoke of flight, of delightful
seclusion in that land so glowingly described by Leonora.

She had made an appointment with him in that hotel, a favorite haunt of
artists. Somewhat off the main thoroughfares, the "Roma" occupies one
whole side of a sleepy, peaceful, aristocratic square with no noise save
the shouting of cab-drivers and the beating of horses' hoofs.

Rafael had arrived on the first morning train--and with no baggage; like
a schoolboy playing truant, running off with just the clothes he had on
his back. The two days since Leonora left Alcira had been days of
torture to him. The singer's flight was the talk of the town. People
were scandalized at the amount of luggage she had. Counted over in the
imagination of that imaginative city, it eventually came to fill all the
carts in the province.

The man who knew the business to the bottom was Cupido, the barber, who
had dispatched the trunks and cases for her. He knew where the dangerous
woman was bound, and he kept it so secret that everybody found it out
before the train started. She was going back to Italy! He himself had
checked and labelled the baggage to the Customs' House at the
frontier--cases as big as a house, man! Trunks he could have lain down
comfortable in, with his two "Chinamen" to boot! And the women, as they
listened to his tale, applauded the departure with undissimulated
pleasure. They had been liberated from a great danger. Joy go with her!

Rafael kept quite to himself. He was vexed at the curiosity of people,
at the scoffing sympathy of his friends who condoled with him that his
happiness was ending. For two days he remained indoors, followed by his
mother's inquiring glances. Dona Bernarda felt more at ease now that the
evil influence of the "chorus girl" promised to be over; but none the
less she did not lose her frown. With a woman's instinct, she still
scented the presence of danger.

The young man could hardly wait for the time to come. It seemed
unbearable for him to be there at home while "she" was away off
somewhere, alone, shut up in a hotel, waiting just as impatiently as he
was for the moment