“Man alive, I’m not graceful enough. I’ll play the guitar. You ask the Countess to dance with you.”
“She won’t do it.”
“Do you want me to ask her for you?”
“Good idea.”
Quentin did so when she returned. She burst out laughing.
“Well, will you do it?”
“Of course, man.”
“Hurrah for all valiant women. Ladies and gentlemen,” said Quentin, turning to the bystanders, “the Señora is going to dance with Pacheco; I shall play the guitar, and I want the best singer here to stand by me.”
Quentin sat in the chair where the old man had been, and near him stood a little dark-haired girl with large eyes. He tuned the guitar, turning one key and then another, and then began a devilish preparatory flourish. Little by little this uncouth flourish grew smoother, changing into a handling of the strings that was finesse itself.
“Go ahead,” cried Quentin. “Now for the little highlander!”