On went the dress.
She strutted up and down, and then, when she had feasted her eyes enough upon her own loveliness, she plaited her hair, and, twisting it up into a rich knot behind, she stuck a high comb into it, and fastened the thick lace veil about her.
Mathias watched it all.
He gloated over that pretty little picture, and, shameless rascal! chuckled to think how little she suspected his presence.
"There," she said, folding the veil about her head with the most coquettish manner, "if I don't look the prettiest señorita alive, why, call me—call me anything odious—yes, even an Englishwoman—ha, ha, ha! How that would please my mistress!"
And then she figured about before the glass, and capered through a Spanish bolero with considerable grace and dexterity, while she sang an impromptu verse to an old air.
The verse was naturally doggerel, and maybe given in English as follows—
"Sweet Marietta,
Rarely has been
A sweeter or better
Face or form seen;
My chestnut tresses,
And my Spanish fall,
Would eclipse all the dresses
At the masked ball.
Then why, Marietta.
Dally?—ah, no!
Pluck up, you'd better,
Your courage and go!"
And as she came to the last line, this impudent little maid whirled round, spinning her skirts about her like a top.
Mathias was enraptured.