The wife of the colonel, whom the baroness had known as a sergeant in Cuba, said that she thought her younger girl, Lulu, would make her début as a dancer in a certain Salon; she was giving her the final lessons.
“Really?” asked the baroness.
“Oh, yes, indeed. Mingote got her the contract and has taken charge of the finishing touches, as he puts it. Ah, what an accomplished fellow! He’s in the dining-room now, with some friends. He’ll be right in. Mingote brought a poet along who has written a monologue for the dear, clever little girl. It’s called “Snap-shots.” That’s a modernistic name, isn’t it?”
“I should say.”
“It’s supposed to be a girl who goes out into the streets to take photographs and she meets with a young blade who approaches her and suggests that she make him a reproduction or a group, and she replies: ‘Hey there, don’t you dare touch my chassis!’ Now, isn’t that clever?”
“Exquisite,” declared the baroness, eyeing Manuel and laughing.
The other women,—distinguished kitchen-maids to judge from their appearance,—nodded their heads in token of assent, and smiled sadly.
“Have you many guests in your room?” asked the baroness.
“As yet no one has come. In the meantime, suppose the child dances a little and lets you see what she can do.”
The Colonel’s wife shouted into the corridor, whereupon Lulu appeared, attired in a skirt covered with spangles, and wearing curly bobbed hair. She was all put out because she had not been able to find a wrist-watch, and was shrilling in her thin, rasping voice.