Mr. Softly, the gentleman thus addressed, rose to comply, his face exhibiting a very amusing struggle between shame and astonishment at the position he occupied. The space cleared, Roland took Olivia's hand, and led her forward with an air of exceeding deference.
“Now, Miss Kenny feck, the step is the easiest thing in the world. It goes so,—one—two; one—two—three; and then change—Exactly, quite right; you have it perfectly. This is, as it were, an introduction to the dance; but the same step is preserved throughout, merely changing its time with the measure.”
It would be as impossible to follow as it would be unfair to weary the reader with the lesson which now began; and yet we would like to linger on the theme, as our memory brings up every graceful gesture and every proud attitude of the fascinating manolo. Representing, as it does, by pantomimic action a little episode of devotion, in which pursuit and flight, entreaty, rejection, seductive softness, haughty defiance, timid fear, and an even insolent boldness alternate and succeed each other, all the movements which expressive action can command, whether of figure or feature, are called forth. Now, it is the retiring delicacy of shrinking, timid loveliness, half hoping, halt fearing, to be pursued; now the stately defiance of haughty beauty, demanding homage as its due. At one moment the winning seductiveness that invites pursuit, and then, sudden as the lightning, the disdain that repels advance.
Not the least interesting part of the present scene was to watch how Olivia, who at first made each step and gesture with diffidence and fear, as she went on, became, as it were, seized with the characteristic spirit of the measure; her features varying with each motive of the music, her eyes at one instant half closed in dreamy languor, and at the next flashing in all the brilliancy of conscious beauty. As for Roland, forgetting, as well he might, all his functions as teacher, he moved with the enthusiastic spirit of the dance,—his rapturous gaze displaying the admiration that fettered him; and when at last, as it were, yielding to long-proved devotion, she gave her hand, it needed the explanation of its being a Mexican fashion to excuse the ardor with which he pressed it to his lips.
Mrs. Kennyfeck's applause, however, was none the less warm; and if any of the company disapproved, they prudently said nothing,—even Mr. Softly, who only evidenced his feeling by a somewhat hasty resumption of the “Morning Post,” while the elder sister, rising from the piano, whispered, as she passed her sister, “Bad jockey-ship, Livy, dear, to make fast running so early.”
“And that is the—What d'ye call it, Mr. Cashel?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck.
“The manolo, madam. It is of Italian origin, rather than Spanish,—Calabrian, I fancy; but, in Mexico, it has become national, and well suits the changeful temper of our Spanish belles, and the style of their light and floating costume.”
“Yes, I suspect it has a better effect with short drapery than with the sweeping folds of our less picturesque dress,” said Miss Kennyfeck, who, for reasons we must not inquire, took a pleasure in qualifying her approval.
“I never saw it appear more graceful,” said Cashel, with a blunt abruptness far more flattering than a studied compliment.
Olivia blushed; Mrs. Kennyfeck looked happy, and the elder sister bit her lips, and threw up her eyebrows, with an expression we cannot attempt to render in words.