er long training at the Castiglione institute, she
danced divinely. Evidently, too, she was reconciled to the warden's
edict, denying her the freedom of the ball-room, for she showed no
disposition to escape from Straws' watchful care. On the contrary,
though her glance wandered to the wonders around her, they quickly
returned to the philosopher with the lamp, as though she courted the
restraint to which she was subjected. Something like a pang shot
through the soldier's breast as he followed the pair with his gaze; he
seemed looking backward into a world of youth and pleasure, passed beyond
recall.

"It is useless to deny it! I knew you when I first saw you!" exclaimed
a familiar voice near by, and turning around sharply, the officer
observed approaching a masked lady, graceful of figure and lacking
nothing in the numerical strength of her escort. It was to her that
these words were addressed by an agile man of medium stature who had
apparently penetrated her disguise. The lady, who would have
attracted attention anywhere by her bearing, wore a pardessus of
white gauze, fitting close and bordered with a silver band; the
sleeves, short; the skirt of white gauze and very ample, as the
fashion of the day required; the feet shod in small white silk
"_bottines_"; the hair in bands, ornamented with wild poppies.
Altogether this costume was described by Phazma as "ravishing, the
gown adorning the lady, and the lady the gown, her graces set forth
against the sheen of voluminous satin folds, like those of some
portrait by Sir Joshua or Gainsborough."

"How could you expect any one not to know you?" continued the speaker,
as this little coterie drew near, their masks a pretext for mystery.
"You may impersonate, but you can not deceive."

"That is a poor compliment, since you take me for an actress," laughed
the lady. An hilarious outburst from an ill-assorted cluster of
maskers behind them drowned his reply, and the lady and her attendants
passed on.

Saint-Prosper drew his breath sharply. "She is here, after all," he
said to himself.

"A nostrum for jilted beaux!" called out a mountebank, seeing him
standing there, preoccupied, alone, at the same time tendering a pill
as large as a plum. A punchinello jarred against him with: "Pardonnez_
moi, pardie!_" On the perfumed air the music swelled rapturously; a
waltz, warm with the national life of Vienna; the swan song of Lanner!
Softly, sweetly, breathed "Die Schoenbrunner;"