“I suspect that it is her vanity to have no vanity,” said Mrs. McLane, who was the wisest of women. “And if she did not happen to be a remarkably handsome girl, I fancy her vanity would take another form. But come, come, mes enfants, let us go. I feel half dressed; but as this is a picnic I suppose it does not matter.”
The guests were assembled in the large hall of the Mission: Mr. Randolph’s party, Don Tiburcio’s, and several priests. The musicians were on the corridor beyond the open window. Doña Eustaquia, Doña Jacoba, Doña Prudencia, Mrs. Polk, and the priests sat on a dais at the end of the room; behind them was draped a large Mexican flag. The rest of the room was hung with the colours of the United States. The older women of the late régime wore the heavy red and yellow satins of their time, the younger flowered silks, their hair massed high and surmounted by a comb. The caballeros were attired like their host.
The guests were standing about in groups after the second waltz, when Don Tiburcio stepped to the middle of the room and raised his hand.
“My friends,” he said, “my honoured compatriots, Don Hunt McLane and Don Jaime Randolph have request that we do have the contradanza. Therefore, if my honoured friends of America will but stand themselves against the wall, we of California will make the favourite dance of our country.”
The Americans clapped their hands politely. Don Tiburcio walked up to Mrs. Earle, bowed low, and held out his hand. She rattled her fan in token of triumph over her Northern sisters, and undulated to the middle of the room, her hand in her host’s.
The swaying, writhing, gliding dance—the dance in which the backbone of men and women seems transformed into the flexible length of the serpent—was half over, the American men were standing on tiptoe, occasionally giving vent to their admiration, when Nina, her eyes sparkling with jealously and excitement, moved along the wall behind a group of people and stood beside Thorpe. He did not notice her approach. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his eyes eagerly fixed on the most graceful feminine convolutions he had ever seen.
“Dudley!” whispered Nina. He turned with a jump, and forgot the dancers.
“Well?” he whispered. “Nina! Nina!”
She slipped her hand into his. He held it in a hard grip, his eyes burning down into hers. “Why—why?—I must respect your moods if you wish to avoid me at times—but—”
“Do you admire that?”