Yvonne put her hand on Gethryn’s arm.
“Don’t let him have any more,” she whispered.
“Give us the goblet!” yelled the Frenchmen.
“Le voila!” shouted Clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with all his strength across the glittering gulf. It fell with a crash in the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor.
Yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her mask in her bouquet and looked down.
“A rose! A rose!” cried the maskers below; “a rose from the most charming demoiselle in Paris!”
She half turned to Gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into the crowd.
There was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng.
“None for me?” sighed Clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet.
She laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then turned and leaned over Gethryn’s chair.