"Only in costume. I am an American."
She repeated it a little musingly. "I do not think I ever met an American young man." She added, "I have met old ones—yes, and middle-aged ones and the women—but a young one, no."
"A retired spot, that school of yours," said Ryder appreciatively. "You are French?"
"That is for your imagination!" Teasingly, she laughed. "I am, monsieur, only a black domino!"
It was the loveliest laugh, Ryder was instantly aware, and the loveliest voice in the world. Yes, and the loveliest eyes.
He forgot the crowd. He forgot the heat. He forgot—alas!—Jinny Jeffries. He was aware of an intense exhilaration, a radiant sense of well-being, and—at the music's beginning—of a small palm pressed again to his, a light form within his arm ... of shy, enchanting eyes out from the shrouding black.
"Do put that veil away," he youthfully entreated. "It's quite time. The others are almost all unmasked."
Her glance about the room returned to him with mock plaintiveness. She shook her head as they spun lightly about a corner.
"Perhaps, monsieur, I have an unfortunate nose."
"My nerves are strong."