To and fro past the sun parlor trooped monks with cowls, and nuns with rosaries; men dressed in gunny-sacks, and women dressed in newspapers. All wore masks. Weezy saw pretty masks and hideous masks; masks of pigs’ faces, of pug-dogs’ faces, of negro, Chinese, and tattooed Indian faces. In every direction the square was a moving mass of varied color. To look through the window was like looking through a slowly whirling kaleidoscope.
“Now those white girls are coming back, mamma,” called Weezy. “And here’s an old, old woman with a queer hat on, and she’s got a dog.”
“That woman must be Old Mother Hubbard, Weezy.”
“And, O mamma! can you see? There’s somebody with a striped dress on. It’s red and white; blue too. It looks like Fourth of July.”
Her mamma preserved a discreet silence.
“And, oh, please, mamma, see that other somebody with her! Her clothes are all red and orange and green.”
The “somebodies” were Pauline and Molly, and they were laughing under their breath to hear Weezy talk about them in this high key.
“They’ll never guess me in this black wig, Pauline,” whispered Molly, taking long steps to disguise her gait.
“Nor me in this blond one, unless Paul does,” returned Pauline. “Isn’t it strange that we haven’t found him and Kirke yet?”
“Very. I’ve taken particular notice of all the clowns and Indians, Miss Stars-and-Stripes. They don’t any of them seem like our boys.”