"He has the face of a village idiot, with eyes like a Scotland Yard detective," was Ulrica's terse summary of his appearance, and it was an admirable description.
On the Sunday afternoon when the first Battle of Confetti was fought, we went out in our satin dominoes of mauve and old gold—the colours of that year—and had glorious fun pelting all and sundry with paper confetti, or whirling serpentines among the crowd in the Avenue de la Gare. Those who have been in Nice during Carnival know the wild gaiety of that Sabbath, the procession of colossal cars and grotesque figures, the ear-splitting bands, the ridiculous costumes of the maskers, the buoyant fun and the good humour of everybody in that huge cosmopolitan crowd.
Gerald was with us, as well as a young American named Fordyce, whom we had known in London, and who was now staying at the Beau Site, over at Cannes. With our sacks containing confetti slung over our shoulders, and the hoods of our bright dominoes over our heads, and wearing half masks of black velvet, we mixed with the crowd the whole of that afternoon, heartily enjoying the fun.
I confess that I enjoyed, and shall always, I hope, enjoy the Nice Carnival immensely. Many constant visitors condemn it as a tawdry tinsel show, and leave Nice for a fortnight in order to escape the uproar and boisterous fun; but after all, even though the air of recklessness would perchance shock some of the more puritanical in our own land, there is nevertheless an enormous amount of harmless and healthy amusement to be derived from it. It is only sour spinsters and the gouty who really object to Carnival. Regular visitors to the Riviera condemn it merely because it is good form to condemn everything vulgar. They used to enjoy it until its annual repetition became wearisome.
After the fight with confetti, during which our hair and dominoes got sadly tumbled, we struggled through the crowd to the hotel; and while Gerald went along to the café outside the Casino to wait for us, we dressed.
Felicita was an unconscionable time in doing my hair—her head was full of the Carnival fever, I think—and when I entered our sitting-room I found Ulrica, ready dressed, seated on a low stool in a picturesque attitude, lazily cooling herself with her fan of feathers. The disengaged bare arm, with its jingling bangles, was gracefully raised, the taper fingers were endeavouring, without much success, to adjust a stray lock of hair. It was a favourite gesture of Ulrica's, for her hands were lovely, white and slender, and covered with rings, which she was fond of displaying. The rosy light from the shaded lamp fell kindly upon her, so that she made an extremely pretty picture.
She was talking as I entered, and in the dim light I discovered a man sitting on the ottoman. I was about to retreat, when she recalled me, and introduced me with a little laugh, to Cecil Ormrod, who had called at that rather inconvenient moment. She appeared to be by no means displeased at having been surprised in a tête-à-tête with him. It was a notification that she had pegged out her claim.
He was tall, manly, and well-shaped, and his voice was pleasant. Ulrica looked at me with a curious smile, as if to say: "Don't you think I have shown good taste?" Then holding out her hand for his aid in rising, she said to him:
"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Ormrod, but we are just going out to dinner. I know you'll excuse us. You'll look in and see us to-morrow. You must, you know—you're staying at the 'Anglais,' and it's close by."
Then, turning to me, she added: