Towards 1 am Mr Clifford’s conversation had become incoherent. But he continued to drink toasts. He drank Yvonne’s health five times, he pledged Rowden and Gethryn and everybody else he could think of, down to Mrs Gummidge and each separate kitten, and finally pledged himself. By that time he had reached the lachrymose state. Tears, it seemed, did him good. A heart-rending sob was usually the sign of reviving intelligence. “Well,” said Gethryn, buttoning his greatcoat, “I’ll see you all in an hour—at the Opera.” Braith was not coming with them to the Ball, so Rex shook hands and said “Good night,” and calling “Au revoir” to Rowden and the rest, ran down stairs three at a time. He hurried into the court and after spending five minutes shouting “Cordon!” succeeded in getting out of the door and into the Rue Michelet. From there he turned into the Avenue de l’Observatoire, and cutting through into the Boulevard, came to his hôtel. Yvonne was standing before the mirror, tying the hood of a white silk domino under her chin. Hearing Gethryn’s key in the door, she hurriedly slipped on her little white mask and confronted him. “Why, who is this?” cried Gethryn. “Yvonne, come and tell me who this charming stranger is!” “You see before you the Princess Hélène, Monsieur, she said, gravely bending the little masked head.” “Oh, in that case, you needn’t come, Yvonne, as I have an engagement with the Princess Hélène of Troy.” “But you mustn’t kiss me!” she cried, hastily placing the table between herself and Gethryn; “you have not yet been presented. Oh, Rex! Don’t be so—so idiotic; you spoil my dress—there—yes, only one, but don’t you dare to try—_Oh Rex!_ Now I am all in wrinkles—you—you bear!” “Bears hug—that’s a fact,” he laughed. “Come, are you ready—or I’ll just—” “Don’t you dare!” she cried, whipping off her mask and attempting an indignant frown. She saw the big bunch of white violets in his hand and made a diversion by asking what those were. He told her, and she declared, delightedly, that she should carry them with Rex’s roses to the Ball. “They shall have the preference, Monsieur,” she said, teasingly. “Oh, Rex! don’t—please—” she entreated. “All right, I won’t,” he said, drawing her wrap around her; and Yvonne, replacing the mask and gathering up her fluffy skirts, slipped one small gloved hand through his arm and danced down the stairs. On the corner of the Vaugirard and the Rue de Medicis one always finds a line of cabs, and presently they were bumping and bouncing away down the Rue de Seine to the river. Je fais ce que sa fantaisie Veut m’ordonner, Et je puis, s’il lui faut ma vie La lui donner sang Yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make Gethryn keep his distance. “Do you know it is snowing?” he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf.