“You destructive little wretch!” he laughed, “this is not the season for the Battle of Flowers. But white roses mean nothing, so I’m not jealous.”
“Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you,” she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast.
And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. But she sprang up laughing.
“I would so like to go onto the floor,” she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; “don’t you think we might—just for a minute, Mr Rowden?” she pleaded. “I don’t mind a crowd—indeed I don’t, and I am masked so perfectly.”
“What’s the harm, Rex?” said Rowden; “she is well masked.”
“And when we return it will be time for supper, won’t it?”
“Yes, I should think so!” murmured Clifford.
“Where do we go then?”
“Maison Dorée.”
“Come along, then, Mademoiselle Destructiveness!” cried Gethryn, tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were appropriated by Clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring across at good old Colonel Toddlum and his frisky companion—an attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul!—and a pew-holder in the American Church.