“Consistency is no more a man’s attribute than a woman’s,” moralizes Miss Hathaway. “My friends approach, Don Caesar,” she adds, as she catches a glimpse of Mr. Felton and Ashley threading their way over the crowded floor.
“That is the signal for my departure, then,” says Don Caesar. “Before I go I would crave one small boon.”
“I owe you some return for your timely assistance. Speak, Don Caesar.”
“Just a glimpse of the face that your mask so jealously veils.”
“Oh!” cries Louise, somewhat disturbed.
“Remember,” urges Don Caesar, “we shall never meet again—But ’twould be ungenerous to press my request,” he adds, rising. “I must say farewell, then, with only the memory of a sweet voice to recall one of the few pleasant quarter-hours that I have known.”
Some impulse, she can hardly explain what, seizes Louise. With trembling fingers she detaches her mask and uncovers a face suffused with blushes.
“I thought so!” murmurs Don Caesar, as his eyes take in the glory of that face, which is almost immediately veiled again.
“Thank you,” he says, simply, and presses to his lips for an instant the hand she timidly gives him in parting.
He is gone, and Louise sinks back into her chair with beating heart, wondering whether she has been foolish, or unmaidenly, or indiscreet. She forgets to administer to Ashley the scolding he deserves for his long absence and receives abstractedly his explanation of a row in the wine-room and their detention by the crowd. Her gaze wanders about the ball-room in search of the graceful figure of Don Caesar de Bazan, but he has vanished.