“Spanish songs!” sighed Eloise indignantly. “What horror! They are good for the common people, but not in society where bon-ton reigns. What then is Gracia thinking of? Here then is it why foreigners rightly think we are behind other nations; because we will not adopt their manners and their tastes as our models, because we through obstinacy will dine at three o’clock, and because we never will persuade ourselves that all that is Spanish is stupid.”
“But,” said the major in a gibberish sort of Anglo-Andalusian, “I believe indeed, that they do very well to be as they are.”
“If this is a compliment,” replied Eloise with emphasis, “it is so much exaggerated that it resembles mockery.”
“It is the Italian lord,” said Rita, “who has asked for these Spanish sonnets. He likes them, and understands them; that’s one proof that they merit being heard.”
“Eloise,” added Raphael, “the barcarolles, the tyroliennes, and the ranz des vaches are the popular songs of other countries; why will we not admit in the society of distinguished people our boleros and the other songs of the Spanish people?”
“Because it is more vulgar,” replied Eloise.
Raphael shrugged his shoulders, Rita laughed outright, and the major comprehended nothing of it.
Eloise got up, and under pretext of a headache left, accompanied by her mother, to whom she said in departing—
“Let them know at least that there are in Spain young ladies sufficiently distinguished and sufficiently delicate to fly from such buffooneries.”
“How unfortunate will be the Abelard of this Heloise!” said Raphael, on seeing her retire.