But we have wandered away from Papayani's, where the door was surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of the poorer among the gay pleasure-seekers of the Carnival. It was a rather trying thing for the arrivals as they stepped from their carriages and passed into the building through a double line of sarcastic or appreciative critics six deep. A quiet brougham draws up at the entrance, the door is flung open by a ragged masker, with an enormous paper nose, in a tattered _pierrot_ costume. As he opens the door he bows to the ground with an exaggerated humility; and Haggard, in his faultless evening dress, steps out, with a frown upon his face, his big form towering above the puny Italian crowd as though he were a king of men in a horde of pigmies. He hands a lady out; her pale blue silk domino hides her effectually from the inquisitive gaze of the crowd. Her tiny gloved hand clutches Haggard's arm as he hurries her into the building, which is one blaze of light, and from which issue sounds of gay music and of the rhythmic tramp of thousands of dancing feet. The lady is discreetly masked, but though her personal identity is thoroughly disguised, she does not escape a fire of compliment from the appreciative ragamuffins on the pavement. "_Ah! che ragazza bellisima._" "_Che figlia incomparabile._" And as an antithesis to this flowery Italian praise, said one British 'Arry to another British 'Arry in the crowd, "Did you see her ankles, George? Do you know who that lady is?" Certainly the white satin dress of the Watteau costume that the lady whom Haggard was escorting wore, disclosed an undeniable instep, and 'Arry's favourable criticism was not undeserved. "I know one thing," said his friend, "there was no humbug in the single stone brilliants she wore as ear-rings." The pair disappeared among the glittering and gaily-dressed crowd that thronged the portico. M. Barbiche, formerly of the French Embassy to the Court of St. James's, his eyeglass tightly screwed into one of his wicked little eyes, was lolling against one of the pillars of the _foyer_. He was criticizing the arrivals to Lord Spunyarn, who yawned by his side, evidently thinking the whole affair a bore. "Our Haggard, my friend, is what you call an old fox, I fear. Who was the charming girl in the blue domino he was dancing with? I failed to recognize her. She is no _habitué_ here. He intrigues me, this Haggard of ours." "Pooh!" replied the philosophic lord, as he drove an unusually large volume of cigarette smoke through both nostrils; "some milliner's apprentice probably, got up regardless of expense." "No, my friend, the shepherdess was too well _chausée_ for that; besides, her mask hides her face too well. Your milliner would not be so _farouche_ as to hide her face, unless, _ma foi_, she had perchance a bad complexion; but our Haggard is too great a connoisseur for that. However, he shall introduce me to this mystery, and we shall see." "I wouldn't try if I were you, Barbiche."