“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. “Only a quadrille—‘La Pataude’ is dancing. Do you want to see it?”