“You are a fool!” laughed Concha.
The next dance was a waltz.
“The Blue Danube! I’m so glad the waltz is coming into fashion again,” said Mrs. Moore, tapping her black-satin-slippered foot in time to the tune, and watching her sixteen-year old daughter Lettice whirl round with Arnold.
“Yes,” said the Doña, “I’m fed up with rag-time.”
“Dear Mrs. Lane, these slangy expressions sound so deliciously quaint when you use them—don’t they, Lady Norton? And that reminds me, I’ve had such a killing letter from Eben....”
But no one listened, and soon she too was silent; for, at the strains of the Blue Danube, myriads of gold and blue butterflies had swarmed out of the jungle and settled on the Buddhas. They still stared in front of them impassively, they were still firm as rocks; but they were covered with butterflies.
Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines
Les courses, les chansons, les baisers, les bouquets
Les violons vibrant derrière les collines,