"Shall we dance or promenade?" asked Ryder. Hesitatingly her gaze met his. Red and gold and green and blue flecks of confetti were glimmering like fishscales over her black wrap and were even entangled drolly in the absurd lengths of her eye-lashes. "It is--if I have not forgotten how to dance," she murmured. "If it is a waltz, perhaps--" It was a waltz. Ryder had an odd impression of her irresolution before, with strange eagerness, he swept her into the music. Within the clumsy bulk of her draperies his arm felt the slightness of her young form. She was no more than a child.... No child, either, at a masquerade, but a fairy, dancing in the moonlight.... She was a leaf blowing in the breeze.... She was the very breeze and the moonlight. And then, to his astonishment, the dance was over. Those moments had seemed no more than one. "We must have the next," he said quickly. "What made you think you had forgotten?" "It is nearly four years, monsieur, since I danced with a man." "With a man? You have been dancing with girls, then?" She nodded. "At a school?" "At a--a sort of school." The black domino laughed with ruefulness. "At a very dull sort of school." "To which, I hope, you are not to return?" She made no answer to that--unless it was a sigh that slipped out. "At any rate," he said cheerily, "you are dancing to-night." "To-night--yes, to-night I am dancing!" There was triumph in her young voice, triumph and faint defiance, and gayety again in her changing eyes. Extraordinary, those eyes. Innocent, audacious, bewildering.... To look down into them produced the oddest of excitement. He took off his mask. Masks were hindering things--he could see so much better without. She, too, could see better--could see him better. Shyly, yet intently, her gaze took note of him, of the clean, clear-cut young face, bronzed and rather thin, of the dark hair that looked darker against the scarlet cap, of the deep-set eyes, hazel-brown, that met hers so often and were so full of contradictory things ... life ... and humor ... and frank simplicity ... and subtle eagerness. He looked so young and confident and handsome.... "You are--a Scotchman?" slipped out from her black yashmak. "Only in costume. I am an American." She repeated it a little musingly. "I do not think I ever met an American young man." She added, "I have met old ones--yes, and middle-aged ones and the women--but a young one, no." "A retired spot, that school of yours," said Ryder appreciatively. "You are French?" "That is for your imagination!" Teasingly, she laughed. "I am, monsieur, only a black domino!" It was the loveliest laugh, Ryder was instantly aware, and the loveliest voice in the world. Yes, and the loveliest eyes.