eight of them shivered at the thought.

"Really?" said Maurice. "How horrible."

The episode was a gaunt intrusion upon gayety; but it was soon forgotten
in the noise and sheen of Piccadilly.

The taxis with much hooting hummed through the dazzling thoroughfares
into the gloom and comparative stillness of Long Acre. As usual they
tried to cut through Floral Street, only to be turned back by a
policeman; but without much delay they swept at last under the great
portico of the Opera House. Here many girls, blown into Covent Garden by
the raw January winds, gave the effect of thistledown, so filmy were
their dresses; and the rigid young men, stopping behind to pay their
fares, looked stiff and awkward as groups of Pre-Raphaelite courtiers.
Commissionaires decorated the steps without utility. In the vestibule
merry people were greeting each other and nodding as they passed up and
down the wide staircase. Here and there an isolated individual,
buttoning and unbuttoning his gloves with unconscionable industry, gazed
anxiously at every swing of the door. Presently Jenny and Madge and
Maudie and Irene were ready and, as on the arms of their escort they
took the floor of the ballroom, might have stepped from a notebook of
Gavarni.

Covent Garden balls are distinguished by the atmosphere of a spectacle
which pervades them. The floor itself has the character of an arena
encircled by tiers of red boxes, many of which display marionettes, an
unobtrusive audience, given over to fans and the tinkle of distant
laughter; while the curtained glooms of others are haunted by invisible
eyes. Here are no chaperons struggling with palms and hair-nets through
a wearisome evening, creaking in wicker chairs and discussing draughts
with neighbors. The old men, searching for bridge-players, are absent.
There is neither host nor hostess; and not one anaemic young debutante is
distressed by the bleakness of her unembarrassed programme.

Maurice announced that he had taken a box for the evening, so that his
guests would be able, when tired of dancing, to cheat fatigue. Then he
caught Jenny round the waist, and, regardless of their companions, the
two of them were lost in the tide of dancers. They were only vaguely
conscious of the swirl of petticoats and lisp of feet around their
course. In the irresistible sweep of melodious violins all that really
existed for Maurice and Jenny was nearness to each other, and eyes
ablaze with rapture; and for h