Paten started suddenly from his lounging attitude, and cleft his way through the crowd, little heeding the comments his rude persistence called forth. As he drew nigh where the yellow domino stood, he hesitated and glanced around him, as though he felt that every eye was watching him, and only after a moment or so did he seem to remember that he was disguised. At last he approached her, and, taking her sleeve in his hand, unpinned the little cross of tricolored ribbon and fastened it on his own domino. With a light gesture of farewell she quickly dismissed her cavalier and took his arm. As he led her along through the crowd, neither spoke, and it was only at last, as seemingly baffled to find the spot he sought for, she said,-- “All places are alike here. Let us talk as we walk along.” A gentle pressure on her arm seemed to assent, and she went on:-- “It was only at the last moment that I determined to come here this evening. You have deceived me. Yes; don't deny it. Paten is with you here, and you never told me.” He muttered something that sounded like apology. “It was unfair of you,” said she, hurriedly, “for I was candid and open with you; and it was needless, besides, for we are as much apart as if hundreds of miles separated us. I told you already as much.” “But why not see him? He alone can release you from the bond that ties you; he may be more generous than you suspect.” “He generous! Who ever called him so?” “Many who knew him as well as you,” cried he, suddenly. With a bound she disengaged her arm from him, and sprang back. “Do not touch me; lay so much as a finger on me, and I 'll unmask and call upon this crowd for protection!” cried she, in a voice trembling with passion. “I know you now.” “Let me speak with you a few words,--the last I shall ever ask,” muttered he, “and I promise all you dictate.” “Leave me--leave me at once,” said she, in a mere whisper. “If you do not leave me, I will declare aloud who you are.” “Who _we_ are; don't forget yourself,” muttered he. “For that I care not. I am ready.” “For mercy's sake, Loo, do not,” cried he, as she lifted her hand towards the strings of her mask. “I will go. You shall never see me more. I came here to make the one last reparation I owe you, to give you up your letters, and say good-bye forever.” “That you never did,--never!” cried she, passionately. “You came because you thought how, in the presence of this crowd, the terror of exposure would crush my woman's heart, and make me yield to any terms you pleased.” “If I swear to you by all that I believe is true--”