r a place of traditions. We'll shelve our little
_cabaret_ till some hour when genius burns, and instead I'll plunge you
straight into common frivolity, as though you were some Cockney tourist
getting his week-end's worth! Have you ever heard of the Bal Tabarin?"

"Never. And I would much--- much rather--"

"No, you wouldn't! I have spoken. Come along!"

Before Max could resist he was swept across the wide roadway, round a
corner, and through what looked to him like the entrance to a theatre.

There were many people gathered about this entrance: men in evening
dress, men in shabby, insignificant clothes, women in varying types of
costume. Max would have lingered to study the little crowd, but Blake
looked upon his hesitancy with distrust, and still retaining the grip
upon his shoulder, half led, half pushed him through a short passage
straight into the dancing-hall, where on the instant his ears were
assailed by a flood of joyous sound in the form of a rhythmic, swinging
waltz--his eyes blinked before the flood of light to which the Parisian
pins his faith for public pleasures--and his nostrils were assailed by a
penetrating smell of scent and smoke. Dazed and a little frightened he
drew back against a wall, overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Superficially
there was little astonishing in the Bal Tabarin; but to the uninitiated
being with wide eyes it seemed in very truth the gay world, with its
stirring music, its walls flaunting their mirrors and their paintings,
its galleries with their palms and railed-in boxes, and beneath--subtly
suggestive adjunct--- the bars, with their countless bottles of
champagne, bottles of every conceivable size built up in serried rows as
though Venus would raise an altar to Bacchus.

Leaning back against the wall, Max surveyed the scene, fascinated and
confused. A thousand questions rose to his lips, but not one found
utterance. Again and yet again his bright glance ranged from the gay red
of the bandsmen's coats to the lines of spectators sitting at the little
tables under the galleries, returning inevitably and persistently to the
pivot of the scene--a space of pale-colored, waxed floor in the centre
of the hall, where innumerable couples whirled or glided to the tune of
the waltz.

He had seen many a ball in progress, but never had he seen dancing as he
saw it here, where grace rubbed shoulders with absolute _gaucherie_, and
wild hilarity mingled unashamed with a curious seriousness--