"May I take it?" he asked.
She returned it now, saying, and her smile was more serious than before, "Learn to open it. There is a way."
Granthope took the heart and tried to master its secret. The room had by this time filled up so that a further tête-à-tête was impossible. Miss Payson was now besieged by maskers and held court where she sat. Fernigan, the stout young man with the powdered face, dressed as a woman, was particularly offensive to Granthope, and especially so because it could not be denied that his antics and sallies were witty.
Granthope arose therefore, and walked about the room looking for some one whom he might recognize. There was little likelihood of his succeeding had not his professional capacity given him a clue to follow. He passed from one group to another, bowing, gesticulating and joking, as all had now begun to do, keeping his eyes alertly on the hands of different members of the assembly. It was not long before he suspected Mrs. Page, and, after reassuring himself by closer inspection, he went up to her.
She was as expensively dressed as Clytie, but without Clytie's taste. Mrs. Page's magnificence was barbaric, untamed to any harmony of color, though effective in its very violence. She had not left her diamonds at home. She blazed in them. Tall, dark, well-formed and deep-breasted, not even the loosely hanging folds of a Chinese costume could hide the luxuriance with which Nature had endowed her figure. She was laughing with abandon, reveling in the freedom of the moment, when Granthope touched her on the shoulder and whispered:
"Violet!"
She turned to him and stared, puzzled by his well-disguised face.
"Who are you?"
"I know more about you than any one here!"
"Good heavens!" she laughed, "what do you know about me?"