Montes gazed at her until he felt a bitterness of revolt against the deceit of Nature. She gladdened all the senses of man. But somehow she seemed false to the effect she created. If he watched her long in this beautiful guise of sleep he would deaden his intelligence. She was not for him. So he pulled a red rose and pushed it against her lips, playfully tapping them until she awoke. Her eyes unclosed. They were a surprise. They should have been blue, but they were tawny. Sleepy, dreamy, wonderful cat eyes they were, clear and soft, windows of the truth of her nature. Montes suddenly felt safe again, sure of himself. “Ah, Señor Montes,” she said. “You found me asleep. How long have you been here?” “A long time, I think,” he replied, as he seated himself on a bench near her hammock. “Watching you asleep, I forgot time. But alas! time flies--and you awoke.” Dolores laughed. She had perfect white teeth that looked made to bite and enjoy biting. Her smile added to her charm. “Sir, one would think you liked me best asleep.” “I do. You are always beautiful, Dolores. But when you are asleep you seem sincere. Now you are--Dolores Mendoza.” “Who is sincere? You are not,” she retorted. “I don’t know you any more. You seem to try to make me dissatisfied with myself.” “So you ought to be.” “Why? Because I cannot run away with you to Brazil?” “No. Because you look like an angel but are not one. Because your beauty, your charm, your sweetness deceive men. You seem the incarnation of love and joy.” “Ah!” she cried, stretching out her round arms and drawing a deep breath that swelled her white neck. “You are jealous. But I am happy. I have what I want. I am young and I enjoy. I love to be admired. I love to be loved. I love jewels, gowns, all I have, pleasure, excitement, music, flowers. I love to eat. I love to be idle, lazy, dreamy. I love to sleep. And you, horrid man, awake me to make me think.” “That is impossible, Dolores,” he replied. “You cannot think.” “My mind works pretty well. But I’ll admit I’m a little animal--a tawny-eyed cat. So, Montes, you must stroke me the right way or I will scratch.” “Well, I’d rather you scratched,” said Montes. “A man likes a woman who loves him tenderly and passionately one moment and tears his hair out the next.” “You know, of course, señor,” she replied mockingly. “The little Alva girl, for instance. You admired her. Perhaps she--” “She is adorable,” he returned complacently. “I go to her for consolation.” Dolores made a sharp passionate gesture, a contrast to her usual languorous movements. Into the sleepy, tawny eyes shot a dilating fire. “Have you made love to her?” she demanded. “Dolores, do you imagine any man could resist that girl?” he rejoined. “Have you?” she repeated with heaving breast. Montes discarded his tantalizing lightness. “No, Dolores, I have not. I have lived in a torment lately. My love for you seems turning to hate.”