Emma Fornez, excited as a child, without waiting to be urged, ran to the piano and struck the first riotous chords of the "Habanera" of _Carmen_. Instantly there was a scramble for the sides of the long piano, and when she looked up again it was into a score of comically adoring faces, each striving to attract her attention. But Beecher, first to a position of vantage, received the full concentration of the diva’s glances. Flushed with the peculiar fleeting intoxication of exuberant youth—the knowledge of the evening’s success with women others coveted—he leaned far over the piano, resting his chin in his hands, gazing with a provoking malice into the eyes of the singer, exaggerating the intensity of his look, maliciously obvious of Nan Charters, whom he felt at his side. Emma Fornez, lending herself to the maneuver, opened her wide, languorous eyes, singing to him alone, with a little forward leaning of her body: "_L’amour est enfant de la Bohême,_ _Il n’a jamais connu de loi_ _Si tu m’aimes._" The song ended in a furore. Mme. Fornez was overwhelmed with spontaneous adulation, and Beecher, laughing and struggling, was choked and carried away by the indignant suitors. Escaping, he came back, happy and resolved on more mischief. He had always had a passion for what is called fancy dancing, and in Europe had learned the dances of the country. He proposed to Emma Fornez a Spanish dance, and the idea was received with shouts of enthusiasm. Every one camped on the floor again, while three or four of the men, converting their sombreros into imaginary tambourines, shook them frantically in the air, led by Bo Lynch, who had somehow procured a great tin tray. "You dance—are you sure?" asked Emma Fornez, looking at his flushed face with an anxious look; for some of the men, notably Lorraine and Lynch, were in a visibly excited state. "Very well," he said confidently. "_Allons_, then!" The dance he had chosen was one somewhat akin to the tarantella, a slow movement gradually and irresistibly singing up into a barbaric frenzy at the climax—one of those dances that are the epitome of primal coquetry, of the savage fascinating allurements of the feline, provoking to the dancer, doubly provoking to the spectator, bewildered by the sudden antagonisms of the poses and the brusque yieldings. At the end, according to Spanish custom, the dance ended in an embrace. Emma Fornez, surprised to find so inspired a partner, transported by the mood, ended laughingly with a kiss, her warm arms remaining languidly a moment about the shoulders of the young man, whom she complimented with expressions of surprise. Besieged at every side with cries for an encore, they repeated the dance, freer in their revolving movements from the intimacy of the first passage.