“Glad to see you—indeed I am! That Colossus is too disinterested in securing partners for his friends; he is, I assure you. If you’re looking for a Louis Quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to Rhodes.” “Rex ought to be here by this time,” said Rowden; “look in the boxes on that side and Clifford and I will do the same on this.” “No need,” cried Elliott, “I see him with a white domino there in the second tier. Look! he’s waving his hand to us and so is the domino.” “Come along,” said Clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, “I’ll find them in a moment. Let me see,”—a few minutes later, pausing outside a row of white and gilt doors—“let me see, seventh box, second tier—here we are,” he added, rapping loudly. Yvonne ran and opened the door. “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.