xtremely agreeable. Nothing would be
pleasanter than to read in a well-written book of an open-air ball that
took place a century ago. How charming! one would say; how pretty
and how amusing! But when the ball takes place to-day, when one finds
oneself involved in it, then one sees the thing in its true light. It
turns out to be merely this." He waved his hand in the direction of
the acetylene flares. "In my youth," he went on after a pause, "I
found myself, quite fortuitously, involved in a series of the most
phantasmagorical amorous intrigues. A novelist could have made his
fortune out of them, and even if I were to tell you, in my bald style,
the details of these adventures, you would be amazed at the romantic
tale. But I assure you, while they were happening--these romantic
adventures--they seemed to me no more and no less exciting than any
other incident of actual life. To climb by night up a rope-ladder to a
second-floor window in an old house in Toledo seemed to me, while I was
actually performing this rather dangerous feat, an action as obvious, as
much to be taken for granted, as--how shall I put it?--as quotidian as
catching the 8.52 from Surbiton to go to business on a Monday morning.
Adventures and romance only take on their adventurous and romantic
qualities at second-hand. Live them, and they are just a slice of life
like the rest. In literature they become as charming as this dismal ball
would be if we were celebrating its tercentenary." They had come to
the entrance of the enclosure and stood there, blinking in the dazzling
light. "Ah, if only we were!" Henry Wimbush added.

Anne and Gombauld were still dancing together.

CHAPTER XXIX.

It was after ten o'clock. The dancers had already dispersed and the
last lights were being put out. To-morrow the tents would be struck, the
dismantled merry-go-round would be packed into waggons and carted away.
An expanse of worn grass, a shabby brown patch in the wide green of the
park, would be all that remained. Crome Fair was over.

By the edge of the pool two figures lingered.

"No, no, no," Anne was saying in a breathless whisper, leaning
backwards, turning her head from side to side in an effort to escape
Gombauld's kisses. "No, please. No." Her raised voice had become
imperative.

Gombauld relaxed his embrace a little. "Why not?" he said. "I will."

With a sudden effort Anne freed herself. "You won't," she retorted.
"You've tried to take the most unf