The harp was shrouded and dumb upon the platform, the oaken floor polished and dark with the night-long slide of slippered feet.

The fiesta was slipping out of the present into the past, where it would live still under the rose-lights of memory.
There was a scurry of little feet in the rose-garden.

A door slammed somewhere and hushed the sound of sobbing.

A senorita--a young and lovely senorita who had all her life been given her way--fled to her room in a great rage, because for once her smiles had not thawed the ice which her anger had frozen.
The senorita flung something upon the floor and trampled it with her little slipper-heels; a rose, blood-red and withered, yet heavy with perfume still; a rose, twin to the one upon which the black horse of Jose had set his foot in the arena.

A note she tore in little bits, with fingers that tingled still from the slap she had given to Diego, who had brought it.