It is apparent that only a desire to humor the wishes of Miss Hathaway has led Cyrus Felton to the garden. And yet it is all so novel, all so bright and full of color, that he becomes interested in spite of himself, and when Ashley proposes a tour of the floor with a peep at the wine-room, Mr. Felton glances irresolutely at Louise. The young lady nods an assent.
“Do not be gone long,” she enjoins, “although I could listen to the music and watch the picture half the night.”
When they are gone she leans back in her chair, partly draws the box draperies, and watches dreamily the ever-changing panorama on the vast floor. Suddenly there is borne to her ears a melody strangely sweet, yet filled with a subtle melancholy. Louise catches her breath and listens. It is the andante of the Beethoven Sonata Pathetique she played so often in her old Raymond home. It has always been her favorite, and she is really an artist in soul and execution. Some one is whistling softly the divine first theme, and with a tenderness she has often felt yet could not satisfactorily express through the medium of an unsympathetic pianoforte.
She leans over the box and her eyes rest upon the figure of a man attired in the costume of Don Caesar de Bazan. He is leaning carelessly against the pillar of the box in which she is sitting, not a dozen feet from her. So closely does his costume fit him and so bravely does he bear it that he looks a veritable Don Caesar who has stepped for an hour from a bygone century. A brown beard covers the lower part of his face; all above is hidden by a black silk mask.
While Louise is taking note of this interesting personality she hears the door open behind her, and turns expecting to greet Mr. Felton or Ashley. Instead a stranger steps rather shakily into the box and closes the door with an affable “Good-evening, mademoiselle.” Louise makes no reply, and her unwelcome visitor drops into a seat with easy familiarity.
“I have been more enthusiastically received to-night, but I will let that pass,” he remarks, with cheerful impudence.
“I do not know you, sir,” says Louise frigidly, as she rises and casts a wildly anxious look over the ball-room.
“Oh, well, I am not so hard to get acquainted with,” offers the insolent mask. “Will you drink a bottle of wine with me?”
“Leave me at once!” commands Louise, pointing to the door with trembling finger.
“By George! That’s an attitude worthy of Lady Macbeth,” remarks his insolence, in frank admiration. “I will go,” he adds, in mock humility, “but I must at least have a kiss to solace me for the loss of your society.”