Some 13 years ago a much-bundled lady lay in her deck-chair on an eastbound Atlantic liner and moaned the fate that had let her go to the U. S. and fail in a few miserably managed recitals. The lady, although it could not have been guessed by her thin, unshaped legs, was a dancer. The name she went by was La Argentina* and in Madrid she had long been a favorite. But the U. S.—bah! She closed her eyes and pretended to forget.
During the next dozen years Argentina's name grew big in Europe...