"Que es bonita!" exclaimed the singer, with a caressing accent in his deep voice. If the woman did not hear the compliment, she had at least heard the Spanish tongue; for she suddenly turned, and, poised in an attitude of supreme grace like a statue of bronze, addressed the artista in a voice clear as a silver bell: — "A quien busca V., señor?" And their black eyes met. It was a tropical look: the man fascinated by the serpent grace of the woman; the woman not seeking to conceal her admiration of the handsome youth before her. Yes: she knew where the consul — Señor Don Alejandro — lived. It was just at the corner. "Mil gracias, señorita!" Not a Spanish girl, no — from some strange town with an Aztec name in the heart of Mexico. "Yo estaba allá!" cried the artist joyfully: "I remember it well — the plaza, and the old house of Señor — on the corner, where I spent some very pleasant
