Her type, he said, did not require colour; and the people preferred
anything morbid in the shape of looks.
Emile, who was among the audience on the first night, thought she
looked like a thorough-bred racer as she made a dignified entrance to a
clanging stately gavotte crashed out by the band. He had given her
dresser a couple of _pesetas_ to have her well turned out, and the
result was exceedingly satisfactory even to his critical eyes.
Her little head with its piled red hair was carried marvellously high,
and she swayed daintily on the back of the high-stepping Don Juan. She
bowed gravely to the various parts of the house, but she had no
stereotyped smile either for the boxes or for the lower seats. Her
slender figure gave the impression of great strength for a young girl.
"Steel in a velvet sheath, _ma foi_! Body and soul!" was Emile's
inward comment. "So much the better for the Cause."
A Spanish crowd usually gives but a languid reception unless roused by
something either horrible or sensational, but her bizarre appearance
had the effect which the Manager had foreseen.
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