that you wear, a
Roman or a Greek?" asked his companion.

"I really don't know--a sort of nondescript. I did not choose my
costume; it was made up for me by my friends. They called me Mark
Antony, but that was because they did not know what else to call me.
But they promised me Cleopatra if I would come with them."

"They would have done better to call you Petrarch, for I am Laura."

"But I never could have taken that part. I could make a very decent
sort of ass of myself, but not a poet."

"What a very terrible voice your Lady Macbeth has!"

"Yes; but she was a terror, you know. Shall we follow the rest?"

They all trooped out of the cafe, and fiacres were called to take them
to the house where the mask was held. The women were placed in their
respective carriages, but the men walked. At the door of the house, as
they entered the ballroom, they reunited, but again were soon
scattered. Robert Kater wandered about, searching here and there for
his very elusive Laura, so slim and elegant in her white and gold
draperies, who seemed to be greatly in demand. He saw many whom he
recognized; some by their carriage, some by their voices, but Laura
baffled him. Had he ever seen her before? He could not remember. He
would not have forgotten her--never. No, she was amusing herself with
him.

"Monsieur does not dance?" It was a Spanish gypsy with her lace
mantilla and the inevitable red rose in her hair. He knew the voice.
It was that of a little model he sometimes employed.

"I dance, yes. But I will only take you out on the floor, my little
Julie,--ha--ha--I know you, never fear--I will take you out on the
floor, but on one condition."

"It is granted before I know it."

"Then tell me, who is she just passing?"

"The one whose clothing is so--so--as if she would pose for the--"

"Hush, Julie. The one in white and gold."

"I asked if it were she. Yes, I know her very well, for I saw a
gentleman unmask her on the balcony above there, to kiss her. It is
she who dances so wonderfully at the Opera Comique. You have seen her,
Mademoiselle Fee. Ah, come. Let us dance. It is the most perfect
waltz."

At the close of the waltz the owl came and took the little gypsy away
from Robert, and a moment later he heard the mellifluous voice of his
companion of the banquet.

"I am so weary, monsieur. Take me away where we may refresh
ourselves."

The red-brown eyes looked pleadingly into his, and the slender fingers
rested on