But Santiago, who was watching his sister in-
tently, replied: "Wait a moment, Excellency. I do
not think she will choose another. I know by her
feet that she intends to dance El Son--in her own
way, of course--after all."

Concha circled about the room twice with Sturgis,
lifted him to the seventh heaven of expectancy, dis-
missed him as abruptly as the others. Lifting her
chin with an expression of supreme disdain for all
his sex, she stood a moment, swaying, her arms
hanging at her sides.

"I am glad she will not dance with Weeliam,"
muttered Santiago. "I love him--yes; but the
Spanish dance is not for the Bostonian."

Rezanov awaited her performance with an in-
terest that caused him some cynical amusement.
But in a moment he had surrendered to her once
more as a creature of inexhaustible surprise. The
musicians, watching her, began to play more slowly.
Concha, her arms still supine, her head lifted, her
eyes half veiled, began to dance in a stately and
measured fashion that seemed to powder her hair
and dissolve the partitions before an endless vista
of rooms. Rezanov had a sudden vision of the Hall
of the Ambassadors in the royal palace at Madrid,
where, when a young man on his travels, he had