the Encinal were
flattered by her casual attentions, and secretly admired her superior
style and aristocratic calm, they were more or less uneasy under the
dominance of her intelligence and education, and were afraid to attempt
either confidence or familiarity. They were also singularly jealous
of her, for although the average young man was equally afraid of her
cleverness and her candor, he was not above paying a tremulous and timid
court to her for its effect upon her humbler sisters. This evening she
was surrounded by her usual satellites, including, of course, the local
notables and special guests of distinction. She had been discussing,
I think, the existence of glaciers on Mount Shasta with a spectacled
geologist, and had participated with charming frankness in a
conversation on anatomy with the local doctor and a learned professor,
when she was asked to take a seat at the piano. She played with
remarkable skill and wonderful precision, but coldly and brilliantly.
As she sat there in her subdued but perfectly fitting evening dress,
her regular profile and short but slender neck firmly set upon her high
shoulders, exhaling an atmosphere of refined puritanism and provocative
intelligence, the utter incongruity of Enriquez' extravagant attentions
if ironical, and their equal hopelessness if not, seemed to me plainer
than ever. What had this well-poised, coldly observant spinster to do
with that quaintly ironic ruffler, that romantic cynic, that rowdy Don
Quixote, that impossible Enriquez? Presently she ceased playing. Her
slim, narrow slipper, revealing her thin ankle, remained upon the
pedal; her delicate fingers were resting idly on the keys; her head was
slightly thrown back, and her narrow eyebrows prettily knit toward the
ceiling in an effort of memory.

"Something of Chopin's," suggested the geologist, ardently.

"That exquisite sonata!" pleaded the doctor.

"Suthin' of Rubinstein. Heard him once," said a gentleman of Siskiyou.
"He just made that pianner get up and howl. Play Rube."

She shook her head with parted lips and a slight touch of girlish
coquetry in her manner. Then her fingers suddenly dropped upon the keys
with a glassy tinkle; there were a few quick pizzicato chords, down went
the low pedal with a monotonous strumming, and she presently began to
hum to herself. I started--as well I might--for I recognized one of
Enriquez' favorite and most extravagant guitar solos. It was audacious;
it was bar