I glanced at him in suspicion. He was a weird-looking creature in his bird dress of mauve and old gold and the strange mask with two black eyes peering out at me. Besides, it was not my habit to dance with strangers. “Ah!” he laughed. “You hesitate because we have not been introduced. Here in Nice at Carnival one introduces one’s self. Well, I have introduced myself, and now I ask you what is your opinion of my marvellous get-up. Don’t you think me a really fine bird?” “Certainly,” I laughed. “You’re absolutely hideous.” “Thanks for the compliment,” he answered pleasantly. “To unmask is forbidden, or I would take off this terrible affair, for I confess I am half stifled. But if I’m ugly you are absolutely charming. It is a case of Beauty and the Bird. Aren’t my wings fetching?” “Very.” “I knew you were American. Funny how we Frenchmen can always spot Americans.” “How did you know that I was American?” I inquired. “Ah! now that’s a secret,” he laughed. “But hark! it’s a waltz. Come under my wing, and let’s dance. I know you’d dearly love a turn round. For this once throw the introduction farce to the winds and let me take you round. The owl is never a ferocious bird, you know.” For a moment I hesitated, then, consenting, I whirled away among the dancers with my strange, unknown partner. “I saw you up in that box,” he said presently. “I waited for you to come down.” “Why?” With a woman’s innate coquetry I felt a delight in misleading him, just as he was trying to mislead me. There was a decided air of adventure in that curious meeting. Besides, so many of the dresses were absolutely alike that now we had become separated it was impossible for me to discover any of our party. The Nice dressmakers make dozens of Carnival dresses exactly similar, and when the wearers are masked it is hard to distinguish one from the other. “Well,” he said evasively in answer to my question, “I wanted a partner.” “And so you waited for me? Surely any other would have done as well?” “No, that is just it. They wouldn’t. I wanted to dance with you.” The waltz had ended, and we strolled together out of the theatre into the great winter-garden with its bright flower-beds and graceful palms, a kind of huge conservatory which forms a gay promenade each evening in the season. “I don’t see why you should entertain such a desire,” I said. “Besides,” and I paused to gain breath for the little untruth, “I fear that my husband will be furious if he has noticed us.” “I might say the same about my wife--if I wished to import fiction into the romance,” he said. “Then you have no wife?” I suggested with a laugh. “My wife is just as real as your husband,” he responded bluntly. “What do you mean?” “I mean that if you really have a husband it is an extremely surprising confession.” “Why surprising?”