“She see her mother dance every day since she were born. She imitate her dancing as her walking, but do not know—each of them have their own manner.”
“That dance is as old as Eve,” said the Argentino, “Imperio adds the sum of her own personality to it, and it is new again.”
“Will Imperio dance to-night?” I asked.
“Always at the Kürsaal after middlenight,” said the Don. “How a pity you cannot go Missis. There are some French and English performers would not please ladies.”
“Ask her to tell you about her doll,” said Villegas; “her mother says that she still plays with it on rainy days when she has to stay at home.”
“Don’t you think Imperio dances better in the studio than in the Kürsaal?” Patsy asked.
“Claro!” the mother smiled and agreed with him.
“Natural,” said Villegas, “we are all Sevilliani, born in the same parish, baptised from the same font in the cathedral. When I first came to Madrid—to copy Velasquez—I was just sixteen years old then—Imperiou’s mother was the first dancer in Spain. How is it? Have you forgotten the dance you gave before Queen Isabel at the palace?”
The grave, fat, middle-aged woman said she remembered something of the dance.
“Well, show us how it went.”