"I saw you up in that box," he said presently. "I was waiting for you to come down."
"Why?"
With woman's innate coquetry, I felt a delight in misleading him, just as he was trying to mislead me. There was a decided air of adventure in that curious meeting. Besides, so many of the dresses were absolutely alike that, now we had become separated, it was hopeless for me to discover any of our party. The Nice dressmakers make dozens of Carnival dresses exactly similar, and when the wearers are masked, it is impossible to distinguish one from the other.
"Well," he said evasively, in answer to my question, "I wanted a partner."
"And so you waited for me? Surely any other would have done as well?"
"No, that's just it. She wouldn't. I wanted to dance with you."
The waltz had ended, and we strolled together out of the theatre into the great winter-garden, with its bright flower-beds and graceful palms—a kind of huge conservatory, which forms a gay promenade each evening in the season.
"I don't see why you should entertain such a desire," I said. "Besides," and I paused to gain breath for the little untruth, "I fear now that my husband will be furious if he has noticed us."
"I might say the same about my wife—if I wished to import fiction into the romance," he said.
"Then you have no wife?" I suggested, with a laugh.