"How you do work, my lady!" cried the silversmith, jokingly.
Her answer was a gay-toned laugh; then she went on with her task, sometimes recoiling so that she almost sat on her heels, again stretching her body forward with an energy that lowered the tight-corseted slimness of her waist and set in motion the fullness of her yielding hips. The silversmith had often seen her thus, without having paid any heed; but hardly had he come to realize her sensual appeal when the flame of desire blazed up in him.
"There's a neat one for you!" thought he.
And he kept on looking at her, his vicious imagination dwelling on the perfections of that carnal flower, soft and vibrant. His brown study continued a while. Then suddenly, with the brusqueness of ill-temper, he got up.
"Well, so long!" said he.
He stopped in the stairway to greet a neighbor and light a cigarette. By the time he had reached the street-door he had forgotten all about Rafaela. But, later, his desire once more awoke. At dinner he dissimulated his observations of the young woman's bare arms. Strong and well-molded they were, those arms, and under the cloth of her sleeves rolled up above the elbow, the flesh swelled exuberantly.
"Hm! You haven't combed your hair, to-day," said Berlanga.
She answered with a laugh—one of those frankly voluptuous laughs that women with fine teeth enjoy.
"You're right," said she. "You certainly notice everything. I didn't have time."
"It don't matter," answered the gallant. "Pretty women always look best that way, with their hair flying and their arms bare."