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 the Spaniard sinks into a chair, panting with triumph, and inclines her dark head to the clapping of hands and the bravos.  The kneelers rise; the spectators break into chattering groups; the ladies look at the dancer with curious eyes; a young gentleman with the elevated Oxford shoulders leans upon the arm of her chair and fans her.  The pose is correct; it is the somewhat awkward tribute of culture to physical beauty.

To be on speaking terms with the phenomenon was for the moment a distinction.  The young ladies wondered if it would be proper to go forward and talk with her.

“Why not?” said a wit.  “The Duke of Donnycastle always shakes hands with the pugilists at a mill.”

“It is not so bad”—­the speaker was a Washington beauty in an evening dress that she would have condemned as indecorous for the dancer it is not so bad as I—­”

“Expected?” asked her companion, a sedate man of thirty-five, with the cynical air of a student of life.

“As I feared,” she added, quickly.  “I have always had a curiosity to know what these Oriental dances mean.”

“Oh, nothing in particular, now.  This was an exhibition dance.  Of course its origin, like all dancing, was religious.  The fault I find with it is that it lacks seriousness, like the modern exhibition of the dancing dervishes for money.”

“Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that the decay of dancing is the reason our religion lacks seriousness?  We are in Lent now, you know.  Does this seem to you a Lenten performance?”

“Why, yes, to a degree.  Anything that keeps you up till three o’clock in the morning has some penitential quality.”