Jim watched the women curiously; they were a new type to him--young,
virile, red-lipped, flushed with wine, shameless in the face of the
crowd, their faces kindled with laughter. They led the men in their wild
revel--pagans absolute. One in particular attracted Done; she was tall,
dark-eyed, and black-haired. This, in conjunction with the bold
combination of red and black in her costume, gave him the belief that she
was Spanish. There was about her some suggestion of character and
strength that pleased him. She romped like a child; her merriment was
clean and unforced. He saw nothing of the corruption that Vice is
supposed to stamp upon the faces of her votaries. These women, despite
the feeble kerosene lights, the tobacco-smoke, and the bare, ugly walls,
might have been participants in the revels of Dionysus.

Several times, passing him in the dance, the eyes of the Spaniard flashed
into his own, and she smiled. When the dance was ended she confronted
him.

'Sure, you're goin' to dance wid me, ain't ye now?' she said in the most
mellifluous brogue.

Done shook his head and laughed with diffidence.

'No, thanks,' he said. 'I'm not a rich digger. Only a poor new chum,' he
added, hoping to carry conviction.

'Straight from the Ould Country, is it?' asked the girl eagerly. 'Have ye
the word of ould Ireland, an' how does she stand? The dance is yours for
the shmallest token.'