Mr. Welbourne, an artist and no Philistine, though a true-born Englishman, public-school-milled, politely and unobtrusively bored, was agreeably surprised by his countrywoman's interest in the show; it was like taking a child--a real old-fashioned child--to a pantomime. Even Agatha observed her with grave but pleased surprise. Dorris, when not explaining things in a loud voice, expressed unmitigated contempt for everything; yet Ermengarde, though she longed for Saracenic invasions when the gurgle was too persistent, scarcely knew that Miss Boundrish was sitting beside her on the stand erected in front of the Mairie, the thin man and Agatha being in the row behind them. Mr. Welbourne, though simple and honest in his ways, had sufficient guile to contrive that. The stout elderly _bourgeoise_ with a bad cold and strong scent of garlic, sitting next Ermengarde, had come, she told her, from Monte Carlo, under sad anxiety lest the bad cold should keep her at home, and never stopped showering confetti on everybody that passed, always missing them, yet wrought to ecstasy when confetti were thrown to her, and pleased as a child when her paper serpents caught in the snapping jaws of the crocodile on a car full of these creatures of all sizes. Another very dowdy old dame in front was quite as active; she was as thickly snowed over with confetti and wound about with paper serpents as Lot's wife in her salt. "I say, Mrs. Allonby," Dorris suddenly hissed in her ear, "look behind, quick!" And Ermengarde, obeying at once, saw nothing but the woman of mystery, unwinding a paper serpent coiled round her neck by a man with a huge false nose in a smart carriage full of silk dominos. "The sting is in the tail," murmured Dorris, and Ermengarde became aware of a small packet at the end of the coil, that Agatha hastily glanced at and slid into her hand-bag, her cheek flushing when she looked up and caught eyes upon her. Ermengarde sighed madly for Saracens. "How could you?" she reproached Dorris, who became mysterious and full of dark hints. Then a serpent was coiled round Mrs. Allonby's neck, and looking up at the thrower, she recognized a Spanish cavalier on a mule, who had already thrown her confetti and bouquets several times in passing the Mairie. She had scattered most of the flowers on the crowd, but kept some especially sweet tea-roses, also a bunch of Parma violets, thrown from the car that carried a few family parties of crocodiles, opening and shutting their long jaws, to the great delight of the populace. There was something in the Spaniard, a flash of the eyes under the broad sombrero, that made her heart beat. Where and when could she have seen that whiskered face? He threw both serpents and confetti freely as he passed, but no flowers, except to her. Very few flowers were thrown by anyone.