In the Quarter

``Bon soir, Messieurs,'' she said, with a demure curtsy.

Clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with Gethryn.

``How is it on the floor?'' asked the latter, as Elliott and Rowden came forward to the edge of the box. ``I want to take Yvonne out for a turn and perhaps a waltz, if it isn't too crowded.''

``Oh, it's pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an hour,'' replied Rowden, barricading the champagne from Clifford.

``We saw you dancing, Mr Clifford,'' observed Yvonne, with a wicked glance at him from under her mask.

Clifford blushed.

``I – I don't make an ass of myself but once a year, you know,'' he said, with a deprecatory look at Elliott.

``Oh,'' murmured the latter, doubtfully, ``glad to hear it.''

Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden.

Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets.

``Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!''

Clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and raised the goblet.

``A la plus belle demoiselle de Paris!'' he cried, with all the strength of his lungs, and drained the goblet.

A shout from the crowd below answered his toast. A thousand faces were turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the party from all parts of the house.

Mademoiselle Nitouche turned to Monsieur de Sacrebleu.

``What audacity!'' she murmured.

Mademoiselle Goujon smiled at the Baron Silberstein.

``Tiens!'' she cried, ``the gayety has begun, I hope.''

Little Miss Ducely whispered to Lieutenant Faucon:

``Those are American students,'' she sighed; ``how jolly they seem to be, especially Mr Clifford! I wonder if she is so pretty!''

Half a dozen riotous Frenchmen in the box opposite jumped to their feet and waved their goblets at Clifford.

``A la plus jolie femme du monde!'' they roared.

Clifford seized another glass and filled it.

``She is here!'' he shouted, and sprang to the edge again. But Gethryn pulled him down.

``That's too dangerous,'' he laughed; ``you could easily fall.''

``Oh, pshaw!'' cried Clifford, draining the glass, and shaking it at the opposite box.

Yvonne put her hand on Gethryn's arm.

``Don't let him have any more,'' she whispered.

``Give us the goblet!'' yelled the Frenchmen.

``Le voila!'' shouted Clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with all his strength across the glittering gulf. It fell with a crash in the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor.

Yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her mask in her bouquet and looked down.

``A rose! A rose!'' cried the maskers below; ``a rose from the most charming demoiselle in Paris!''

She half turned to Gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into the crowd.

There was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng.

``None for me?'' sighed Clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet.

She laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then turned and leaned over Gethryn's chair.

``You destructive little wretch!'' he laughed, ``this is not the season for the Battle of Flowers. But white roses mean nothing, so I'm not jealous.''

``Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you,'' she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast.

And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. But she sprang up laughing.

``I would so like to go onto the floor,'' she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; ``don't you think we might – just for a minute, Mr Rowden?'' she pleaded. ``I don't mind a crowd – indeed I don't, and I am masked so perfectly.''

``What's the harm, Rex?'' said Rowden; ``she is well masked.''

``And when we return it will be time for supper, won't it?''

``Yes, I should think so!'' murmured Clifford.

``Where do we go then?''

``Maison Dorée.''

``Come along, then, Mademoiselle Destructiveness!'' cried Gethryn, tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were appropriated by Clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring across at good old Colonel Toddlum and his frisky companion – an attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul! – and a pew-holder in the American Church.

``My love,'' said the frisky one, ``who is the gentleman in the black mask who stares?''

``I don't know,'' muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, ``I don't know, but I wish I did.''

And the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask.

``What are they looking at?'' whispered Yvonne, as she tripped along, holding very tightly to Gethryn's arm.