If you ever find yourself on Thirty-fourth Street near Seventh Avenue, don't fail to hunt up a certain Spanish table d'hote restaurant. This section of New York is like a border town on the lower Pyrenees in France. People speak French with the Spanish accent and Spanish with the singsong of Southern France.

Sitting on the broad steps of the fine old massive brown stone houses of the district, children of old Catalonia, Dons and Donas from Madrid and Barcelona, using a latinized English all their own, exchange stories and opinions with their French neighbors.

Chords struck on a guitar, to accompany a subdued voice, high colors on the window curtains, a mixed odor of garlic, incense and heavy-scented perfumes, suggest something indefinably Moorish, Alhambresque; slow yet passionate, like cold fire.

And lo! the mirage vanishes! You are out of the district. The modest warm curve of the Orient has disappeared, the arrogant cold straight line of the Occident stares at you. You are in the heart of busy old New York.

But if you are hungry, hungry for good, hunt up the Ibanez place. Four two-seat tables, two three-seat ones, and two big tables of elastic capacity in the centre. The wall paper is red, the shade on the lamps brown, the ceiling is golden, the lady is fair, the food is good, and the wine....

The Ibanezes have a daughter, Juanita. She was twenty when I last saw her. Her hair fell over the forehead like foam from an overful glass of liquid amber. Altogether she reminded one of molten gold and fire and honey.

Pablo Cortez, the Cuban poet, was in love with Juanita at that time. She was not indifferent to his attentions; yet like a real Spanish dona she allowed him to woo her in his own fashion.

The last clients had departed. Cortez, myself and Madame Ibanez were drinking coffee. Juanita was not well. Pablo had brought some of his latest poems which he wanted to read to all of us. Madame Ibanez thought them beautiful, but she became very serious when the poet told her they were dedicated to her daughter.

Her smile vanished, the face and body became taut, and her eyes, like two big search-lights, seared through to the man's heart. After a while she relaxed, lit a cigarette, brought some more coffee and seating herself between us two she said:

"You two have been talking the whole evening. I too, want to tell a story.

"There was a young couple I knew twenty-five years ago. They were both artists. She was a pianist and he was a singer. He had the most beautiful voice I ever heard—and I have heard a lot of good voices. Her father was a rich merchant and had planned differently for his daughter, but she fell in love with Pedro and eloped with him.

"At Boulogne they took a steamer for Havana and landed there penniless, absolutely penniless. Another piece of sugar, Don Pablo? non? Well, they landed penniless. But he had some friends there who bestirred themselves, and in ten days they had arranged the first concert in the largest hall of Havana. It was more than a success, it was a triumph. She acted as his accompanist.

"That night they vowed one to another that he would never sing with another accompanist, and she would never play the accompaniments to another singer.

"His voice and her playing pleased the Cubans so much the couple had to appear in concert several times a week. Money flowed in from all sides. The young wife sometimes longed for home and hers, she loved her people very much. But Pedro kissed away her worries—sang away her longings. They were very happy.

"A manager got hold of them and pretty soon they had engagements from San Francisco all the way to New York.

"When they arrived in San Francisco it was spring. Pedro had a slight cold, and went to see the doctor his manager recommended to him. It was the first time he had ever been out alone since they eloped from Madrid. She was too tired to accompany him. He had to return the next day, and the next, for treatment.

"On the fourth day was the concert. A phenomenal success. Pedro sang better than ever. His wife sitting at the piano felt the envy of a thousand women. And she was proud of her Pedro. His voice rose and fell and rippled, and between the folds of sound were jewels of all colors.

"Still, on the next day he went to see the doctor. When he returned he was irritable, quarrelsome, and refused to even go out with her.

"She cried. What else can a woman do? He quieted her soon, and made her beg forgiveness. The reason for his irritability was, he said, the condition of his throat, as the doctor had explained it to him. It made her sit up the whole night. What if her Pedro should lose his golden voice?

"The next morning she made herself ready to go with him to the doctor. It was an Italian who knew French well. She would try to get him to tell her the truth about her husband's voice. But Pedro insisted that she must remain home. She did not have proper street wear to conceal her state. He talked and talked until she gave in and remained home.

"No sooner was he gone and she regretted to have let him go alone. Why! in a taxi she could be there without being much seen by any one!

"She dressed hurriedly and was soon at the medical man's door. She heard Pedro's voice. He sang to a piano's accompaniment. The voice was as clear as a bell, the 'tessatura' as firm as rich velvet.

"She rang the bell. A servant came out. 'No, the doctor was not in town.'

"'He has not been in town the last two days. He was always away on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of every week.'

"'Who's playing? who's singing?'

"'The great tenor and the doctor's wife'——

"And the door closed with a bang.

"Pedro came home a few hours later.

"'Pedro, what did the doctor say?'

"'He said I must see him at least three times a week—on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays—all the time we shall be here.'

"Then they went down to the restaurant to dine. He was very gay, very well disposed when they returned to their apartments. They sat down to drink Spanish lemonade which only she knew how to prepare exactly to his taste.

"There was only one cry—the rest was only guttural noise. A few drops in the drink and his vocal chords were destroyed forever—he never sang again to another woman's accompaniments."

"And the woman, Madame Ibanez? What happened to the woman?"

"She kept her vow. She never played accompaniments to another man's singing. She opened a restaurant, Don Pablo; her man became the cook. And now a poet thinks he loves their daughter."

Like silver crystals detaching themselves from onyx flames, two tears rolled down the parched cheeks of the woman.

"Pablo Cortez must know how the Ibanezes take love, and think twice before he dedicates his poems."

Some gruntlings were heard from the other side of the partition. Madame Ibanez stood up.

"It's best you gentlemen leave now. Poor Pedro must be very tired."

Pablo Cortez returned to Cuba on the next steamer.

If you ever are hungry while in the neighborhood of Thirty-fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, look up the Ibanezes place. Juanita serves the new guests.