Certainly no unattached woman in Las Rubertas could be indifferent to this dashing beau. With his oiled and scented hair, a row of perfect teeth flashing beneath a fascinating mustache, a pair of bold and roving eyes, dapper grace and a genius for meeting all social exigencies, Ignacio Bojarques was the last man to lurk bashfully in the shadow of obscurity.
Therefore, all things considered, it is small wonder that a thrill of suppressed excitement was felt throughout the ballroom when this important figure raised his hand imperiously for silence.
But before he could speak, the jingling of spurs and the scuffling of feet diverted the attention of the guests, and directed all eyes to the door, where they beheld the L.X. outfit arriving in a body, breathless, with color high from haste, and dressed to the last notch in gay silk neckerchiefs and tallowed boots.
The Mexicans frowned perceptibly, but the faces of their women lighted with covert smiles of welcome. The socially gifted floor-manager advanced with expressions of pleasure, which his eyes belied, and requested
