“Big as it is,” said Pauline, “the one in the Hermitage is bigger.”
The dance—it was the first of the night—had come to an end, and while a few couples had seated themselves, the greater number were slowly promenading around the ballroom. As they passed by in gay talk Wilfrid scanned the shape of each fair masker, and tried to catch the sound of her voice in the hope that he might hear the Duchess speaking; nor did he neglect to hold his arm in such a position that his lady’s favour might be clearly seen.
Now, during this promenading, Wilfrid’s attention was struck by a tall gentleman—he was more than six feet high—clad in the glittering dress of a Crusader. This individual, while going by, fixed a keen glance both upon Pauline and Wilfrid. Through the holes of his mask a pair of steely blue eyes seemed to flash anger; the next moment their owner had passed by.
“Prince Ouvaroff, or my name isn’t Courtenay,” murmured Wilfrid.
“Which is Ouvaroff?” asked Pauline.
“He in the dress of a Crusader,” replied Wilfrid, indicating the receding figure.
“Yes, that is Ouvaroff.”
She spoke with a sort of hesitancy that gave Wilfrid the impression that while she herself did not really believe that it was Ouvaroff, she was desirous that Wilfrid should! An odd impression, certainly, but there it was.
The music, suspended after the first dance, now started again. Eager as Wilfrid was to begin his search for the Duchess, he nevertheless realised that it would be unmannerly to escort Pauline to the ball without offering to tread one measure at least with her.