"Mr. Vandeman," I said. "That's an order. It'll have to be done."
The words froze everything. Hardly a sound or movement in the great crowded room, except the little rustle as some one tried to see better. And there, all eyes on him, Bronson Vandeman stood with his arms at his sides, mute as a fish. Ina fumbled nervously at the cord of her own mask, calling to me in a fierce undertone,
"What do you mean, Mr. Boyne, bringing that girl here to spoil things. This is spite-work."
"Off—take his mask off! Do it yourself!" Barbara's voice was clear and steady.
I made three big jumps of the space between us and the leading couple. Vandeman's committee-men obstructed me, the excited yip going amongst them.
"Vandeman—Bronse—Vannie—Who let this fool in here?—Do we throw him out?"
Then they took the words from Edwards; the tune changed to grumblings of, "What's the matter with Van? Why doesn't he settle it one way or another, and be done?"
Why didn't he? I had but a breath of time to wonder at that, as I shoved a way through. Darn him, like a graven image there, the only mute, immovable thing in that turmoil! I began to feel sore.
"You heard what she said?" I took no trouble now to be civil. "She wants your mask off."
No flicker of response from the man, but the Empress of China dragged down her mask, crying,