"And now—avaunt—before I brand thee for mine own!"
The little gentleman flung out an imperative, melodramatic arm; and veritable sparks sprayed from his crackling finger-tips. The servant retired in haste and dismay.
"'E's balmy—or screwed—or the Devil 'imself!" he muttered....
Beneath his mask the little man grinned privately at the man's retreat.
"Piker!" said he severely—"sharpening your wits on helpless servants. A waiter has no friends, anyway!"
An elevator, descending, discharged into the lobby half a dozen mirthful maskers. Of these, a Scheherazade of bewitching prettiness (in a cloak of ermine!) singled out the silent, cynical little gentleman in scarlet mask and smalls, and menaced him merrily with a jewelled forefinger.
"What—you, Lucifer! Traitor! Where have you been all evening?"
"Madame!"—he bowed mockingly—"in spirit, always at your ear."
She flushed and bit her lip in charming confusion; while an abbess, with face serene in the frame of her snowy coif, caught up the ball of badinage:
"Ah, in spirit! But in the flesh?"