On the wall at one end of the apartment was stretched a white canvas; in front of it was left a small cleared space, on the edge of which, in the shadow, squatting on the floor, were four swarthy musicians in Oriental garments, with a mandolin, a guitar, a ney, and a darabooka drum.  About this cleared space, in a crescent, knelt or sat upon the rugs a couple of rows of men in evening dress; behind them, seated in chairs, a group of ladies, whose white shoulders and arms and animated faces flashed out in the semi-obscurity; and in their rear stood a crowd of spectators —­beautiful young gentlemen with vacant faces and the elevated Oxford shoulders, rosy youth already blase to all this world can offer, and gray-headed men young again in the prospect of a new sensation.  So they kneel or stand, worshipers before the shrine, expecting the advent of the Goddess of AEsthetic Culture.

The moment has come.  There is a tap on the drum, a tuning of the strings, a flash of light from the rear of the room inundates the white canvas, and suddenly a figure is poised in the space, her shadow cast upon the glowing background.

It is the Spanish dancer!

The apparition evokes a flutter of applause.  It is a superb figure, clad in a high tight bodice and long skirts simply draped so as to show every motion of the athletic limbs.  She seems, in this pose and light, supernaturally tall.  Through her parted lips white teeth gleam, and she smiles.  Is it a smile of anticipated, triumph, or of contempt?  Is it the smile of the daughter of Herodias, or the invitation of a ‘ghazeeyeh’?  She pauses.  Shall she surprise, or shock, or only please?  What shall the art that is older than the pyramids do for these kneeling Christians?  The drum taps, the ney pipes, the mandolin twangs, her arms are extended—­the castanets clink, a foot is thrust out, the bosom heaves, the waist trembles.  What shall it be—­the old serpent dance of the Nile, or the posturing of decorous courtship when the olives are purple in the time of the grape harvest?  Her head, wreathed with coils of black hair, a red rose behind the left ear, is thrown back.  The eyes flash, there is a snakelike movement of the limbs, the music hastens slowly in unison with the quickening pulse, the body palpitates, seems to flash invitation like the eyes, it turns, it twists, the neck is thrust forward, it is drawn in, while the limbs move still slowly, tentatively; suddenly the body from the waist up seems to twist round, with the waist as a pivot, in a flash of athletic vigor, the music quickens, the arms move more rapidly to the click of the heated castenets, the steps are more pronounced, the whole woman is agitated, bounding, pulsing with physical excitement.  It is a Maenad in an access of gymnastic energy.  Yes, it is gymnastics; it is not grace; it is scarcely alluring.  Yet it is a physical triumph.  While the spectators are breathless, the fury ceases, the music dies, and