come to escort the dancers to the scene of festivities.
During the promenade, partners have been already engaged, and as Tunicu
is a member of the Philharmonic, and has offered to procure me an
admission, I engage myself to the charming Cachita for the first three
dances.

Tunicu and I occupy the interval which precedes the opening of the ball
in various ways. The terrace of the cathedral, which overlooks the
square, is thronged with coloured people, who, not being allowed to join
in the promenade below, watch their white brethren from a distance.
There is, however, among this assembly, a sprinkling of whites, some of
whom are in a state of mourning, and consider it indecorous to show
themselves in public; while others, like Tunicu and myself, visit the
occupants of the terrace to exchange greetings with some of the dark
divinities there. Tunicu is a great admirer of whitey-brown beauty,
especially that which birth and the faintest coffee-colour alone
distinguish from the pure and undefiled. He is also an advocate of
equality of races, and like many other liberal Cubans, sighs for the
day when slavery shall be abolished. Some of the brown ladies whom he
addresses belong to respectable families of wealth and importance in the
town; and were it not for certain rules which society prescribes, Tunicu
says they would contract the whitest of alliances.

Descending the broad flight of steps of the cathedral, Tunicu invites me
to partake of some refreshment at a neighbouring cafe. The round marble
tables of the cafe are crowded with fashionables fresh from the Retreta.
Some of Tunicu's companions are sipping and smoking at one of these
tables. The moment we appear, his friends rise, salute us elaborately,
and offer us places at their festive board.

What will we take in the way of refreshment?

This requires reflection, and meanwhile we gather a suggestion or two
from the libations already before us. There are sugar and water panales,
cream-ices, cold fruit drinks, bottles of English ale, and 'sangria' or
rum punch, to choose from.

'When you are in doubt, order cafe noir and a petit verre,' is Tunicu's
maxim, which we both adopt on this occasion. Cups of coffee and cognac
are accordingly brought, cigarettes are handed round, and the
convivialities of the cafe proceed. The company at the Retreta is
discussed, and the brown beauties of the cathedral terrace are descanted
upon. One of our party, whom everybody addresses by