Rezanov followed her back to the sala chewing the
cud of many reflections.



X

Concha had eaten no supper. As she entered the
sala she clapped her hands, the guests ranged
themselves against the wall, the musicians, livelier
than ever, flew to their instruments; with the drift-
ing, swaying movement she could assume at will,
she went slowly, absently, to the middle of the room.
Then she let her head drop backward, as if with
the weight of her hair, and Rezanov, vaguely angry,
expected one of those appeals to the senses for
which Spanish women of another sort were
notorious. But Concha, after tapping the floor
alternately with the points and the wooden heels of
her slippers, for a few moments, suddenly made
an imperious gesture to Ignacio Sal. He sprang to
her side, took her hand, and once more there was
the same monotonous tapping of toes and heels.
Then they whirled apart, bent their lithe backs until
their brows almost touched the floor in a salute of
mock admiration, and danced to and from each
other, coquetry in the very tilt of her eyebrows, the
bare semblance of masculine indulgence on his eager,
passionate face. Suddenly to the surprise of all, she
snapped her fingers directly under his nose, waved