"Why, poppet!" he retorted in suave surprise—"it isn't possible that you missed me?"
And she, too, coloured; while a third, a girl dressed all in buckskin from beaded hunting-shirt to fringed leggings and dainty moccasins, bent to peer into his face.
"Who are you?" she demanded curiously. "I don't seem to know you—"
"That, child, you have already proved."
"I?... Proved?... How do you mean?"
"You alone have not yet blushed."
And wheeling mischievously to the others, he covered them with widespread hands in burlesque benediction.
"The unction of my deep damnation abide with ye, my children, now and forevermore!" he chanted, showering sparks from crepitant finger-tips; and bounded lightly into the elevator.
"But your mask!" protested Scheherazade in a pet. "You've no right—when we all unmasked at supper."
Through the iron fretwork of the gate, the little gentleman shot a Parthian spark or two.