Eulogia came rather late. At the last moment her mother had wavered in her part of the contract, and it was not until Eulogia had sworn by every saint in the calendar that she would not leave the sala, even though she stifled, that Doña Pomposa had reluctantly consented to take her. Eulogia's perfect little figure was clad in a prim white silk gown, but her cold brilliant eyes were like living jewels, her large mouth was as red as the cactus patches on the hills, and a flame burned in either cheek. In a moment she was surrounded by the young men who had been waiting for her. It might be true that twenty girls in the room were more beautiful than she, but she had a quiet manner more effective than animation, a vigorous magnetism of which she was fully aware, and a cool coquetry which piqued and fired the young men, who were used to more sentimental flirtations.
She danced as airily as a flower on the wind, but with untiring vitality.
"Señorita!" exclaimed Don Carmelo Peña, "thou takest away my breath.
Dost thou never weary?"
"Never. I am not a man."
"Ay, señorita, thou meanest—"
"That women were made to make the world go round, and men to play the guitar."
"Ay, I can play the guitar. I will serenade thee to-morrow night."
"Thou wilt get a shower of ashes for thy pains. Better stay at home, and prepare thy soul with three-card monte"
"Ay, señorita, but thou art cruel! Does no man please thee?"
"Men please me. How tiresome to dance with a woman!"