"She ain't done a thing yet; she ain't even showed whether she can dance
a few bars or not, but, Lord! how she has got over!" was Hanson's
unspoken comment. "Clean to the back seats. There's nobody else here."

Although still aimlessly moving with the rhythm of the waltz she no
longer merely followed the music. She and it were one now. And Hanson, a
connoisseur, familiar with the best, at least in his part of the world,
recognized the artist whose technique is so perfect that it is absorbed,
assimilated and forgotten; but its essence remains, nevertheless, a sure
foundation upon which to build securely future combinations and
improvisations.

The Black Pearl was generous to-night. She was the program--its one
feature. She gave the audience its money's worth, judged by their
standards, which were measured by time; and yet, when she finished, she
gave one no idea of having exhausted her repertoire. In fact, she could
not have defined that repertoire. Dancing was her expression, and the
Black Pearl was conscious of infinite and unsounded phases of self.

Most of the features of the program were familiar to Hanson by her
reputation. They included some old Spanish dances, some gypsy ones and
others manifestly her own. But dancer though she was by nature and
training, her personality dominated and eclipsed her art.

Hanson was not imaginative, but as he watched her he seemed to be gazing
at some gorgeous cactus blossom opening its scentless petals to the
burning sun. Beneath and beyond her stretched the gray wastes of the
desert turning to gold under her feet, but still untrammeled and
merciless, holding strange secrets close to its savage heart; now,
exerting all its magic of illusion in delicate and exquisite mirages,