sisters.  This evening she was surrounded by her usual satellites, including, of course, the local notables and special guests of distinction.  She had been discussing, I think, the existence of glaciers on Mount Shasta with a spectacled geologist, and had participated with charming frankness in a conversation on anatomy with the local doctor and a learned professor, when she was asked to take a seat at the piano.  She played with remarkable skill and wonderful precision, but coldly and brilliantly.  As she sat there in her subdued but perfectly fitting evening dress, her regular profile and short but slender neck firmly set upon her high shoulders, exhaling an atmosphere of refined puritanism and provocative intelligence, the utter incongruity of Enriquez’ extravagant attentions if ironical, and their equal hopelessness if not, seemed to me plainer than ever.  What had this well-poised, coldly observant spinster to do with that quaintly ironic ruffler, that romantic cynic, that rowdy Don Quixote, that impossible Enriquez?  Presently she ceased playing.  Her slim, narrow slipper, revealing her thin ankle, remained upon the pedal; her delicate fingers were resting idly on the keys; her head was slightly thrown back, and her narrow eyebrows prettily knit toward the ceiling in an effort of memory.

“Something of Chopin’s,” suggested the geologist, ardently.

“That exquisite sonata!” pleaded the doctor.

“Suthin’ of Rubinstein.  Heard him once,” said a gentleman of Siskiyou.  “He just made that pianner get up and howl.  Play Rube.”

She shook her head with parted lips and a slight touch of girlish coquetry in her manner.  Then her fingers suddenly dropped upon the keys with a glassy tinkle; there were a few quick pizzicato chords, down went the low pedal with a monotonous strumming, and she presently began to hum to herself.  I started—­as well I might—­for I recognized one of Enriquez’ favorite and most extravagant guitar solos.  It was audacious; it was barbaric; it was, I fear, vulgar.  As I remembered it—­as he sang it—­it recounted the adventures of one Don Francisco, a provincial gallant and roisterer of the most objectionable type.  It had one hundred and four verses, which Enriquez never spared me.  I shuddered as in a pleasant, quiet voice the correct Miss Mannersley warbled in musical praise of the PELLEJO, or wineskin, and a eulogy of the dicebox came caressingly from her thin red lips.  But the company was far differently affected:  the strange, wild air and wilder accompaniment were evidently catching; people moved toward the piano; somebody whistled the air from a distant corner; even the faces of the geologist and doctor brightened.

“A tarantella, I presume?” blandly suggested the doctor.

Miss Mannersley stopped, and rose carelessly from the piano.  “It is a Moorish gypsy song of the fifteenth century,” she said dryly.

“It seemed sorter familiar, too,” hesitated one of the young men, timidly, “like as if—­don’t you know?—­you had without knowing it, don’t you know?”—­he blushed slightly—­“sorter picked it up somewhere.”