“I don't know it; I never saw it danced.”
“Well, the manolo, then.”
“Nor that either,” said both girls, laughing.
“Well, will you learn? I'll teach you the manolo. It's very simple. If you 'll play the air, Miss Kennyfeck,—it runs thus.” Here he opened the pianoforte, and, after a few chords, struck with a masterly finger, he played a little Spanish dance; but with a spirit of execution, and in such an exciting character of time and measure, that a general exclamation of delight broke from the whole room, Mr. Jones himself forgetting all rivalry, and Mr. Softly laying down his newspaper to listen, and for a moment carried away by the fascination of the spirit-stirring melody.
“That is the manolo; come, now, and let me teach you, first the air, and then the dance.”
“Oh, I never could succeed to give it that character of bold and haughty defiance it breathes from you,” said Miss Kennyfeck.
“Nay, nay, a man's hand is always so rude and heavy, it needs the taper finger of a lady,”—here Cashel bent, and kissed the hand he held, but with such a deference and respect in the salute, that deprived the action, so novel to our eyes, of any appearance of a liberty,—“of a lady,” he resumed, “to impart the ringing brilliancy of the saucy manolo.”
“Then play it over once more, and I 'll try,” said Miss Kennyfeck, who was a most accomplished musician, and had even already caught up the greater part of the air.
Cashel obeyed, and again the plaudits followed even more enthusiastically than the first time. With a precision that called forth many a hearty “bravo” from Roland, Miss Kennyfeck played over the air, catching up all the spirit of its transitions from gay to plaintive, and from tender to a strain bold, daring, and energetic.
“Now for the dance,” exclaimed Cashel, eagerly, as he busied himself in removing chairs and pushing back sofas. “Will you be kind enough to assist me with this table?”