She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which ‘La Pataude’ and ‘Grille d’Egout’ were holding high carnival. At every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared. “Brava! Bis!” cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; “vive La Pataude!” For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper. The crowd roared again. “Brava! Brava, La Pataude!” Yvonne turned away. “I don’t like it. I don’t find it amusing,” she said, faintly. Gethryn’s hand closed on hers. “Nor I,” he said. “But you and your friends used to go to the students’ ball at ‘Bullier’s,’” she began, a little reproachfully. “Only as Nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty genuine there—at least, with the students. We used to go to keep cool in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse ourselves at Carnival time.” “But—Mr Clifford knows all the girls at ‘Bullier’s.’ Do—do you?” “Some.” “How many?” she said, pettishly. “None—now.” A pause. Yvonne was looking down. “See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I haven’t been to the Bullier since—since last May.” She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask. “Why, Yvonne!” he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz. “Don’t speak to me, Rex—but dance! Dance!” They danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash. “Tired?” he asked, still holding her. She smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a little cry. “Oh! I’m caught—there, on your coat!” He leaned over her to detach the shred of silk. “Where is it? Oh! Here!” And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis. “You see,” he said, “it will always draw me to you.” But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm. When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor Colonel. “Old dog thinks I know him,” he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in. Yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself. “Time for supper, you know,” suggested Clifford. Yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great plumes to and fro. “Who are those people in the next box?” she asked him. “They do make such a noise.” “There are only two, both masked.” “But they have unmasked now. There are their velvets on the edge of the box. I’m going to take a peep,” she whispered, rising and leaning across the railing. “Don’t; I wouldn’t—” began Gethryn, but he was too late. Yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her chair, deathly pale. “My God! Are you ill, Yvonne?” “Oh, Rex, Rex, take me away—home—” Then came a loud hammering on the box door. A harsh, strident voice called, “Yvonne! Yvonne!”