_She._ Is that in the bargain? _He._ Of course. Else how should we know each other again? _She._ But-- _He._ Unmask! _She._ Very well,--when you do. _He._ Now, then. [_They unmask._] _She._ Philip! _He._ Agnes! _She._ You knew all the time! _He._ Who told you I was here? _She._ I didn't know it. _He._ I thought you went to Russia. _She._ Well, I didn't. I hope you feel better! Good night. _He._ Wait, Agnes. I-- [_There is a moment's silence, in which they look at each other intently. He takes her hand in both his._] _He._ Agnes, I am not your ideal man, but-- _She._ Nor I your ideal woman, apparently. Your wife does not count, you say. _He._ No more than your husband; so we are quits there. _She._ It's very horrid of you to remind me of that. _He._ I acknowledge that I was always very horrid in everything. _She._ Oh, if you acknowledge that, Phil, it is hardly worth while to spend any more time in explanations while this divine waltz is running to waste. _He._ But you were tired and out of sorts. _She._ You old goose, don't you see that I'm neither! _He._ And you do waltz divinely. [_They attempt to adjust their masks, but somehow get into each other's arms. In a few moments more, however, they are seen among the dancers within._] Tale the Second. THE TUBEROSE. THE TUBEROSE. I. "I shall feel honored, Mistress Henshaw, if you will accept this posie as a token which may perchance serve to keep me in remembrance while I am over the sea." "I am extremely beholden to you," replied the old dame addressed, her wrinkled face illuminated with a smile of pleasure. "But for keeping you in remembrance it needs not this posie or other token. I do not hold my friends so lightly." "I thank you for counting me one of your friends," John Friendleton said frankly. "I have no kindlier memories of Boston than of the home under your roof." He had placed upon the many-legged table a flower-pot containing a thrifty tuberose, and with a kindly smile upon his handsome and winning face, he stood regarding the old dame into whose custody he had just given the plant. The dress of the period,--the days of the end of the seventeenth century,--plain though it was, accorded well with the sturdy honesty and kindness of his face and the compact and strong build of his figure. The wrinkled crone returned his smile with one of frosty but genuine warmth. "This plant is none the less pleasing to me," she said, "though I by no means need it as a reminder. I shall be very careful in its nourishing."