of every rich material, the men in white trousers, black
silk jackets, and low morocco shoes; no color except in the jewels
and the rich Southern faces. The bare ugly sala, from which the uglier
furniture had been removed, needed no ornaments with that moving
beauty; and even the coffee-colored, high-stomached old people were
picturesque. I wander through those deserted salas sometimes, and,
as the tears blister my eyes, imagination and memory people the cold
rooms, and I forget that the dashing caballeros and lovely donas who
once called Monterey their own and made it a living picture-book are
dust beneath the wild oats and thistles of the deserted cemetery on
the hill. The Americans hardly know that such a people once existed.

Chonita entered the sala at eleven o'clock, looking like a snow queen.
Her gold hair, which always glittered like metal, was arranged to
simulate a crown; she wore a gown of Spanish lace, and no jewels but
the string of black pearls. I never had seen her look so cold and so
regal.

Estenega stepped out upon the corridor. "Play El Son," he said,
peremptorily. Then as the vivacious music began he walked over to
Chonita and clapped his hands in front of her as authoritatively as
he had bidden the musicians. What he did was of frequent occurrence
in the Californian ball-room, but she looked haughtily rebellious. He
continued to strike his hands together, and looked down upon her
with an amused smile which brought the angry color to her face. Her
hesitation aroused the eagerness of the other men, and they cried
loudly--

"El Son! El Son! senorita."

She could no longer refuse, and, passing Estenega with head erect,
she bent it slightly to the caballeros and passed to the middle of the
room, the other guests retreating to the wall. She stood for a moment,
swaying her body slightly; then, raising her gown high enough for
the lace to sweep the instep of her small arched feet, she tapped
the floor in exact time to the music for a few moments, then glided
dreamily along the sala, her willowy body falling in lovely lines,
unfolding every detail of El Son, unheeding the low ripple of
approval. Then, dropping her gown, she spun the length of the room
like a white cloud caught in a cyclone; her garments whirred,
her heels clicked, her motion grew faster and swifter, until the
spectators panted for breath. Then, unmindful of the lively melody,
she drifted slowly down, swaying languidly, her long round a