"At a—a sort of school." The black domino laughed with ruefulness. "At a very dull sort of school."
"To which, I hope, you are not to return?"
She made no answer to that—unless it was a sigh that slipped out.
"At any rate," he said cheerily, "you are dancing to-night."
"To-night—yes, to-night I am dancing!" There was triumph in her young voice, triumph and faint defiance, and gayety again in her changing eyes.
Extraordinary, those eyes. Innocent, audacious, bewildering.... To look down into them produced the oddest of excitement.
He took off his mask. Masks were hindering things—he could see so much better without.
She, too, could see better—could see him better. Shyly, yet intently, her gaze took note of him, of the clean, clear-cut young face, bronzed and rather thin, of the dark hair that looked darker against the scarlet cap, of the deep-set eyes, hazel-brown, that met hers so often and were so full of contradictory things ... life ... and humor ... and frank simplicity ... and subtle eagerness.
He looked so young and confident and handsome....
"You are—a Scotchman?" slipped out from her black yashmak.