“Yes, little mama,” said Imperio kindly, “show us how you danced before the Queen.”
The old dancer rose with a curious action springing with one step from her chair to the first position of the dance. Then with a noble solemnity she danced the same dances, only not with the same spirit as Imperio; that would have been incongruous. She danced with the most magnificent and splendid dignity as became the mother of a family. Patsy was right, so might David have danced before the Ark. Little saucy Imperio sat by and encouraged.
“Viva tu madre, ollé ollé!” she cried, clapping her little hands.
Dionisio nodded kindly to his mother, looking at her with eyes that were her very own. The gentle mother, so long relegated to the second place, danced and rejoiced in the tardy attention and applause of the company.
“Isn’t it time for refreshments?” asked Patsy. “They all look as if they needed something to eat.” We adjourned to the inner studio where the dancers and musicians fell upon the good things with the appetite of demigods and heros. Imperio seeing that I was not eating anything, came across the room holding between a small thumb and finger a thin slice of sausage which she offered me, which I made out to eat.
Don Jaime seemed in a dream, he had felt the dance deeply; Patsy tapped on the shoulder. “Wake up,” he said, “have you forgotten where you are?”
“It is like the lotus,” sighed the Don, “it make you forget all the world.”
Imperio had changed her dress again; the fandango, the very best fiesta of all we saw in Spain, was over.
“Show us my portrait, Maestro,” she said, pointing to a veiled picture on an easel.
Villegas threw back the curtain and showed us a second Imperio standing with one hand raised above her head, one held behind her back, a red matador hat upon her short curls, the emerald fire in her eyes. Patsy stared at the picture, then at Imperio, once more a demure child in a white frock as she was when she came into the studio, save for an added touch of color in her cheeks.