sence of Beauty, and that now
he knew the women he had been wont to call beautiful were but pretty.
And yet her beauty, he told himself, was the least of her loveliness,
for there was a glamour about her. It was not only the richness of her
youth; but there was an ineffable exhalation which seemed to be made
partly of light, partly of the very spirit of her, and, oddly enough,
partly of the scent of the little fan that hung by a ribbon from her
waist. This was a woman like a wine, he felt, there was a bouquet.

In regard to the bouquet of the young man himself, if he possessed one,
it is pertinent to relate that at this very instant the thought skipped
across his mind (like the hop of a flea in a rose-jar) that some day
he might find the moment when he could tell her the truth about
herself--with a half-laugh--and say: "The angels sent their haloes in a
sandal-wood box to be made into a woman--and it was you!"

"If you have anything to say for yourself, say it quickly!" said Miss
Betty.

"You were singing a while ago," he answered, somewhat huskily, "and
I stopped on the street to listen; then I came here to be nearer. The
spell of your voice--" He broke off abruptly to change the word. "The
spell of the song came over me--it is my dearest favorite--so that I
stood afterward in a sort of trance, only hearing again, in the silence,
'The stolen heart, like the gathered rose, will bloom but for a day!'
I did not see you until you came to the bench. You must believe me: I
would not have frightened you for anything in the world."

"Why are you wearing that dress?"

He laughed, and pointed to where, behind him on the ground, lay a long
gray cloak, upon which had been tossed a white mask. "I'm on my way to
the masquerade;" he answered, with an airy gesture in the direction of
the violins. "I'm an Incroyable, you see; and I had the costume made
from my recollection of a sketch of your great-uncle. I saw it a long
time ago in your library."

Miss Carewe's accustomed poise was quite recovered; indeed, she was
astonished to discover a distinct trace of disappointment that the
brilliant apparition must offer so tame an explanation. What he said was
palpably the truth; there was a masquerade that night, she knew, at the
Madrillon's, a little way up Carewe Street, and her father had gone, an
hour earlier, a blue domino over his arm.

The Incroyable was a person of almost magical perceptiveness; he felt
the let-down immediatel