“But I never could have taken that part. I could make a very decent sort of ass of myself, but not a poet.”
“What a very terrible voice your Lady Macbeth has!”
“Yes; but she was a terror, you know. Shall we follow the rest?”
They all trooped out of the café, and fiacres were called to take them to the house where the mask was held. The women were placed in their respective carriages, but the men walked. At the door of the house, as they entered the ballroom, they reunited, but again were soon scattered. Robert Kater wandered about, searching here and there for his very elusive Laura, so slim and elegant in her white and gold draperies, who seemed to be greatly in demand. 397 He saw many whom he recognized; some by their carriage, some by their voices, but Laura baffled him. Had he ever seen her before? He could not remember. He would not have forgotten her––never. No, she was amusing herself with him.
“Monsieur does not dance?” It was a Spanish gypsy with her lace mantilla and the inevitable red rose in her hair. He knew the voice. It was that of a little model he sometimes employed.
“I dance, yes. But I will only take you out on the floor, my little Julie,––ha––ha––I know you, never fear––I will take you out on the floor, but on one condition.”
“It is granted before I know it.”
“Then tell me, who is she just passing?”
“The one whose clothing is so––so––as if she would pose for the––”
“Hush, Julie. The one in white and gold.”