He stood before her. Involuntarily his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, as it had done when shortly before he had been speaking to Señora Valentino.
The girl arose quickly. "Good evening, Captain Morando," she said and left the room.
Undecided, he looked after her.
A hand was laid on his shoulder.
"Señor Captain, we meet after El Son in the card room. Come into the open with us, and we will explain."
It was Valencia who spoke.
"Yes, come with us. We have been looking everywhere for you," joined in Hernandez.
"I am at your service, señors."
The music for El Son, low and sobbing, came floating through the flower-scented air. This dance, of Spanish, or, perhaps, of Moorish origin, had elaborated itself in the new world, personifying in poetry of motion the joyous spirit of the province. It belonged to the master of the house to select the dancer who, if she chose, might add to the usual figures inventions of her own. Carmelita appeared at the entrance of the ballroom. Serving maids and Indian messenger boys were around her in numbers. She dispatched them, one by one, to bring in all the guests.
They came from everywhere. The older men were in small groups, talking earnestly, and often gesticulating vehemently. The young men were mostly with their sweethearts and the dueñas. With Señora Valentino were Valencia, Hernandez, Abelardo Peralta, Patricio Martinez, and a half dozen others, including Morando.