The spectacle was fantastic, suggesting the practice of mysteries which might be evil. It was the hour of counterfeit. Hooded and cloaked and masked, Secrecy whirled and flitted, finger to lip. Whispers and stifled laughter, red mouths and shining feet, white wrists upon hidden shoulders were mocking Truth. Broad shafts of coloured light, the only luminants, ranged to and fro over the company. Robed as familiars of the Inquisition, a cunning orchestra lent scene and music alike a devilish air. “Well, Perry, won’t you ask me to dance?” The man started violently. “Who are you?” he breathed, taking cool fingers in his and sliding an arm about a yielding waist. As they slid into the fox-trot— “I oughtn’t to tell you really, but as we’re such old friends . . . I’m Joan Atlee—_that was_.” Peregrine’s heart gave one tremendous bound. For a moment he said nothing, dancing mechanically and trying to find his voice. Then— “How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.” “Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.” “Why?” “Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I feel better now.” The lie sailed straight to its mark. “I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?” “I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.” The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with three dazzling beams. “Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough. Joan thrilled to her core. “You’re not half as thankful as I am, Perry,” she said. “We may have tired of each other—or thought we did—but at least we understood.” “By Jove, yes,” said the man violently. They danced the length of the chamber in eloquent silence. Then— “You know I’m married, Perry?” said Joan in a low voice. “Only from what you said a moment ago.”