"I recognized her eyes. I do not know who she is, I cannot think; yet I know her. She knew me, too; I saw it in her face. And I believe she knows you."
"Elsie!"
"She looked—— Wait; she is finishing!"
The music was indeed rising to a finale. The dancer glided to the central arch through which she had entered, poised on the verge of taking flight, then raised both hands to her head.
The black wig came off with the sweeping gesture. The dancer was a man, whose short-clipped auburn hair tumbled in boyish disorder about his powdered forehead. But there was no look of boyhood in his face, as he turned it toward Adriance's table; the familiar, reckless face of Fred Masterson.
The room was in an uproar of laughter and applause. But the dancer disappeared without acknowledging or pausing to enjoy his success; indeed, as if escaping from it.
When Elsie ventured to look at her husband, he had one hand across his eyes. He dropped it at once, but avoided her gaze as if the humiliation were his own.
"Finish your coffee," he bade, his voice roughened by a dry hoarseness. "I want to get out of this—to get home."
"We have not spoken to Mr. Masterson," she hesitatingly reminded him. "He asked us to meet him."