“Baila preciosa niña,
Baila sin mas tardar.”
It had a sweet and spring-like melody, though a minor cadence ran through it, in spite of the joyous movement it suggested. Mrs. Van Dorn could but admire the picture the girl made against the background of spring green, her arms moving with youthful grace as she slapped her tortillas from hand to hand keeping time to her song.
As she saw who accompanied Christine she looked up with a startled expression, and the tortilla fell to the ground unnoticed. She stepped back as if to retreat, and then with eyes downcast, came forward and stood the pattern of girlish confusion.
“Lolita, this is Mrs. Van Dorn who has come to see you,” said Christine, and Lolita made a timid obeisance. It was a moment fraught with terror for her, and she would willingly have escaped.
But her courtesy did not forsake her. “My father’s house is yours, señora,” she said. “Will you enter?”
“Is it not more pleasant outside?” said Mrs. Van Dorn. “I will sit here, if you will allow. Christine, are not those magnolias nearly in bloom? I wonder if you would get me a bud. They are the first I have seen.” And Christine, thus dismissed, left Lolita to face the situation alone.
For a moment Mrs. Van Dorn said nothing, but sat looking at the girl standing before her, eyes downcast and hands clasped. It was useless to deny that she was a beautiful creature. Surely one would needs go far to find a maiden so near perfection. Her face in repose was very serious. The casual observer might have called it cold unless he saw the expression of her eyes.
“My son has been visiting you, I believe,” Mrs. Van Dorn began. “He is a very good friend of yours, is he not?”
“Si, señora. Yes, madam, I am have the honor to call him so.”