Leaving the salon, in the wake of a pair of venerable politicians, who were helping each other along with little touches and pats, he made his way towards the ballroom, where a new dance known as the Pisgah Pas was causing some excitement, and gaining a post of vantage, it was not long before he caught a glimpse of the agile, boyish figure of his betrothed. She passed him, without apparently noticing he was there, in a whirlwind of black tulle, her little hand pressed to the breast of a man like a sulky eagle; and he could not help rejoicing inwardly, that, _once_ his wife, it would no longer be possible for her to enjoy herself exactly with whom she pleased. As she swept by again he succeeded in capturing her attention, and nodding meaningly towards a deserted picture-gallery, wandered away towards it. It was but seldom he set foot there, and he amused himself by examining some of the pictures to be seen upon the walls. An old shrew with a rose ... a drawing of a man alone in the last extremes ... a pink-robed Christ ... a seascape, painted probably in winter, with cold, hard colouring.... “Yousef?” “Rara!” “Let us go outside, dear.” A night so absolutely soft and calm, was delicious after the glare and noise within. “With whom,” he asked, “sweetheart, were you last dancing?” “Only the brother of one of the Queen’s Maids, dear,” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi replied. “After dinner, though,” she tittered, “when he gets Arabian-Nighty, it’s apt to annoy one a scrap!” “_Arabian-Nighty?_” “Oh, never mind!” “But (pardon me dear) I do.” “Don’t be tiresome, Yousef! The night is too fine,” she murmured glancing absently away towards the hardly moving trees, from whose branches a thousand drooping necklets of silver lamps palely burned. Were _those_ the “bladders” then? Strolling on down hoops of white wisteria in the moon they came to the pillared circle of a rustic-temple, commanding a prospect on the town. “There,” she murmured smiling elfishly, and designating something, far below them, through the moonmist, with her fan: “is the column of Justice and,” she laughed a little, “of _Liberty_!” “And there,” he pointed inconsequently, “is _the Automobile Club_!” “And beyond it ... The Convent of the Flaming-Hood....” “And those blue revolving lights; can you see them, Rara?” “Yes, dear ... what are _they_, Yousef?” “Those,” he told her, contemplating her beautiful white face against the dusky bloom, “are the lights of the Café Cleopatra!” “And what,” she questioned, as they sauntered on, pursued by all the sweet perfumes of the night, “are those berried-shrubs, that smell so passionately?” “I don’t know,” he said: “Kiss me, Rara!” “No, no.” “Why not?” “Not now!” “Put your arm about me, dear.” “What a boy he is!” she murmured, gazing up into the starry clearness. Overhead a full moon, a moon of circumstance, rode high in the sky, defining phantasmally far off, the violet-farded hills beyond the town.