"You make fun of the Plaza"—said Manella, biting her lips vexedly—"And of me, too. I am nothing to you!"
"Absolutely nothing, dear! But why should you be any thing?"
A warm flush turned her sunburnt skin to a deeper tinge.
"Men are often fond of women"—she said.
"Often? Oh, more than often! Too often! But what does that matter?"
She twisted the ends of her rose-coloured neckerchief nervously with one hand.
"You are a man"—she replied, curtly—"You should have a woman."
He laughed—a deep, mellow, hearty laugh of pleasure.
"Should I? You really think so? Wonderful Manella? Come here!—come quite close to me!"
She obeyed, moving with the soft tread of a forest animal, and, face to face with him, looked up. He smiled kindly into her dark fierce eyes, and noted with artistic approval the unspoiled beauty of natural lines in her form, and the proud poise of her handsome head on her full throat and splendid shoulders.