"Papacito, please!" urged the girl in low voice.
He clapped his hands before her.
In the midst of loud applause she walked to the middle of the room.
The music, now dreamy and insinuating, soon took a livelier turn. The young woman glided back and forth on the waxed floor as lightly as a swallow skims the air. In willowy movements, hands and feet in perfect correspondence, she hovered over the cleared space, seeming scarcely to touch the floor. Then, in wider step, she circled over this space in eaglelike sweeps, her arms outstretched and her long hair floating.
Without pausing, the girl's movements became sinuous, gentle. She advanced, retreated, again came forward, as if entreating, but fearing rebuff. Rare grace and charm was in every motion.
"Brava! Brava!" shouted the men, while above all was heard the excited voice of Morando.
With arms extended she fluttered from side to side, as a butterfly sipping honey from flower-cups here and there, staying but an instant at any one.
Her hand made gesture to the musicians.
The strain became bold, quick, martial.
She spun on her toe-tips, her long dress billowing, her hair streaming. As she whirled, her feet described winding figures on the floor, her skirts repeating the design.