At that the lady aborigine began to laugh.
Straightway I forgot the outlandish gown, forgot the
cannon-ball beads, forgot the sparse fringe, forgave the
absence of "lines." Such a voice! A lilting, melodious
thing. She broke into a torrent of speech, with
bewildering gestures, and I saw that her hands were
exquisitely formed and as expressive as her voice. Her
German was the musical tongue of the Viennese, possessing
none of the gutturals and sputterings. When she crowned
it with the gay little trilling laugh my views on the
language underwent a lightning change. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world to see her open the flat,
silver case that dangled at the end of the cannon-ball
chain, take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it there
in that little German dining room. She wore the most
gracefully nonchalant air imaginable as she blew little
rings and wreaths, and laughed and chatted brightly with
her husband and the other men. Occasionally she broke
into French, her accent as charmingly perfect as it had
been in her native tongue. There was a moment of
breathless staring on the part of the respectable
middle-class Frauen at the other tables. Then they
shrugged their shoulders and plunged into their meal
again. There was a certain little high-born air of
assurance about that cigarette-smoking that no amount of
staring could ruffle.

Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of
game. The lady aborigine of the golden voice, and the
ugly husband of the peaked chin had a strange fascination