At this moment the strains of Arditi's immortal waltz, "Il Bacio," resounded through the place. The head of M. Barbiche kept time to the music, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eye evidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring of maskers which surrounded the space set apart for the dancers thinned, as numerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman was rewarded. "_La voila, mon ami_," he said, for Barbiche, when excited, forgot the English of which he was so proud. Directly opposite Lord Spunyarn and his French friend stood Haggard and his shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrown back, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion of the lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; her rounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; her figure, as she gazed up into Haggard's face, was seen to be perfection. The little foot beat time to the music of the waltz. But a black silk mask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chin and a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard, and the shell-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which had attracted the attention of the British "'Arry" in the street. Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped round the little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidingly placed on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined the numerous pairs whirling round to the music of "Il Bacio." Soon the couple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware. Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and even here in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishman is an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlike most of the dancers present (at all events those of the male sex), was perfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians had exceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but an Italian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himself under the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, the perfumes, the music, the dancing, and above all the eyes of his _inamorata_. Can we blame Petrarch for being cheerful when Laura smiles? But no Italian present was in so exalted a state as M. Barbiche of the French Embassy, once so well known as Le petit Furibon, of the Latin Quarter.