She was pale, her eyes were wide; but she did not retreat. "But," she
said, "but it is true, Checho. It is true. What he said to you was true--
and now--" she frowned as she pondered out what was to come; clouds
gathered over her beautiful, soulless face; she folded her arms,
clenched her teeth and stormed at me.

"You fool, you fool, you fool!" she said fiercely, panting for breath
with which to end me. "Oh, you dream-child, you moonraker, what are you
doing in a world where men work for their pleasures and women have to
cringe for the scraps? What was I to do when Porfirio shut me out of
doors, and you--you, who had caused it, refused to come with me? Was I
to spread my wings and fly straight into the lap of the Madonna? You
would say so, I suppose! Your flights were very fine, but one cannot
live on the wind. Any man but a poet would have picked me up at the door
and taken care of me with a 'Come, my beloved, we will fly together.'
But no! You were making eyes at the stars, and protesting that two of
them were my eyes, and the moon my forehead. And then--O Dio! and then,
when you found me again in Florence, what did you do? I was at my wit's
ends, and you kissed my hands! There! That was all--all--all--on the
word of a Christian! Did I not try to get more from you? Any one but a
poet would know that I did. I heard your long poems, I touched you, I
ran to meet you, I was kind, I was cross, I called you to me and then
turned my back upon you. And then I found out, sir, what your baciar-di-
mani, and bowings and reverences were worth. They were worth--myself.
You had your Virginia snug at home, in a brocaded gown, and a fan, my
word! Do you think I could not guess the truth of your story about her?
Her honour indeed! What have such rubbish to do with honour? A Virginia,
a baggage for your arms--and I, to have my hand kissed, and to yawn over
dreary verses! By the Madonna, but I did my best to stop that play. Let
me tell you, Don Francis, that it was I--I--I"--she struck her bosom