He looked at her--without the mask--for a moment, and she drew back, wondering. For his eyes were very weary, and they spoke to her of things which she did not understand. "Don't try," he said. "It wouldn't be any good." Mademoiselle sank into her chair opposite to them, breathless and hot. She accepted a glass of wine and begged for a cigarette. She whispered in Macheson's ear that the big man was a forger, an affair of the year before last. He was safe away from Paris, but the price of his liberty was more than he could pay. The man there to the left with the lady in pink, no! not the Vicomte, the one beyond, he was tried for murder a month ago. There was a witness missing--the case fell through, but--mademoiselle shook her shoulders significantly. The lady with fair hair and dark eyes, Macheson asked, was she English? But certainly, mademoiselle assured him. She was the divorced wife of an English nobleman. "To-night she is alone," mademoiselle added, "but it is not often! Ah, monsieur!" Mademoiselle shook her finger across the table. Macheson's too curious glance had provoked a smile of invitation from the lady! "I really think you might remember that I am here," Ella remarked. "It is very interesting to hear you talk French, but I get tired of it!" Mademoiselle took the hint and flitted away. Supper arrived and created a diversion. Nevertheless, Macheson alone of the little party seemed to have absorbed successfully the spirit of the place. He was almost recklessly gay. He drank toasts right and left. He was the centre from which the hilarity of the room seemed to radiate. Davenant was half muddled with wine, and sleepy. He sat with his arm about Rosine, who looked more often towards Macheson. Ella, who had refused to eat anything, was looking flushed and angry. She had tried to link her arm in her companion's, but he had gently disengaged it. She kept whispering in his ear, and sat with her eyes glued upon Mademoiselle Flossie, whose glances and smiles were all for Macheson. And soon after the end came. The band began a waltz--"L'Amoureuse"--it was apparently mademoiselle herself who had commanded it. With the first bars, she sprang to her feet and came floating down the room, her arms stretched out towards Macheson. She leaned over the table, her body swaying towards him, her gesture of invitation piquant, bewitching. Macheson, springing at once to his feet, rested his hand for a moment upon the table which hemmed him in, and vaulted lightly into the room. A chorus of laughter and bravoes greeted his feat. "But he is un homme galant, this Englishman," a Frenchwoman cried out, delighted. Every one was watching the couple. But Ella rose to her feet and called a waiter to move the table. "I am going," she said angrily. "I have had enough of this. You people can come when you like."