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Miss Winchester was soon leading the whole company through some Mexican danzas with a spontaneous abandon perfectly delightful; then some half-Spanish or old-time Creole reminiscences, very dansante in their time and place, and yet with a peculiar strain of languor which pictured the sunny southern clime in one of its most characteristic moods. Also one of her brother’s waltzes which quite lifted the hearer off his feet, very difficult to interpret as she did; simply because not being a singing waltz, neither of the kind that draws the feet downwards towards the floor in tempo strict and strong, but quite the contrary lifts the dancer up, carries him beyond, without fatigue, borne upon the wings of time into the realm of graceful motion.

Mrs. Cultus could not quite make out whether this strange rhapsodical style of waltzing was quite up to the standard of the occasion. It certainly was rather effective, but not as she ever remembered hearing it in the german. “’Twas impossible to count two or three to such a thing as that and keep up with it;” therefore suspicious. So the politic Mrs. Cultus hid behind her jewelled lorgnette, looking alternately at the performer and the audience before making up her mind.