isfigured.

"One is gay here always," she said somewhat doubtfully, "but it is the
people who come seldom who enjoy themselves the most."

Macheson laughed as he led her back to their table.

"You are right," he declared. "Pleasure is a subtle thing. It does not
do to analyse."

Macheson filled her glass.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell us about the people. It is early yet, I
suppose?"

She nodded.

"Yes," she answered. "There are many who come every night who have not
yet arrived."

Ella leaned forward to ask a question, and mademoiselle nodded. Yes!
that was Bolero at the small table opposite. She sat with three men, one
of whom was busy sketching on the back of the menu card. Bolero, with
her wonderful string of pearls, smileless, stolid, with the boredom in
her face of the woman who sees no more worlds to conquer. Monsieur with
the ruffled hair and black eyes? Yes! a Russian certainly. Mademoiselle,
with a smile which belied her words, was not sure of his name, but
Francois spoke always of His Highness! The gentleman with the
smooth-shaven face, who read a newspaper and supped alone? Mademoiselle
looked around. She hesitated. After all, monsieur and his friends were
only casual visitors. It was not for them to repeat it, but the
gentleman was a detective--one of the most famous. He had watched for
some one for many nights. In the end it would happen. Ah! Some one was
asking for a cake-walk? Mademoiselle finished her wine hastily and
sprang up. She will return? But certainly, if monsieur pleases!

The band struck up something American. Mademoiselle danced up and down
the little space between the tables. Ella laid her hand upon Macheson's
shoulder.

"Why do you want to talk to every one?" she whispered. "I think you
forget sometimes that you are not alone."

Macheson laughed impatiently.

"My dear young lady," he said, "you too forget that we are on a quest.
We are here to understand what pleasure means--how to win it. We must
talk to every one, do everything everybody else does. It's no good
looking on all the time."

"But you never talk to me at all," she objected.

"Rubbish!" he answered lightly. "You don't listen. Come, I am getting
hungry. Davenant, we must order supper."

Davenant, whose hair Mademoiselle Rosine had been ruffling, whose tie
was no longer immaculate, and who was beginning to realize that he had
drunk a good deal of wine, leaned forward and regarded Macheson with
admiration.