In the Quarter

``Only a quadrille – `La Pataude' is dancing. Do you want to see it?''

She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which `La Pataude' and `Grille d'Egout' were holding high carnival. At every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared.

``Brava! Bis!'' cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; ``vive La Pataude!''

For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper.

The crowd roared again. ``Brava! Brava, La Pataude!''

Yvonne turned away.

``I don't like it. I don't find it amusing,'' she said, faintly.

Gethryn's hand closed on hers.

``Nor I,'' he said.

``But you and your friends used to go to the students' ball at `Bullier's,''' she began, a little reproachfully.

``Only as Nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty genuine there – at least, with the students. We used to go to keep cool in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse ourselves at Carnival time.''

``But – Mr Clifford knows all the girls at `Bullier's.' Do – do you?''

``Some.''

``How many?'' she said, pettishly.

``None – now.''

A pause. Yvonne was looking down.

``See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I haven't been to the Bullier since – since last May.''

She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask.

``Why, Yvonne!'' he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz.

``Don't speak to me, Rex – but dance! Dance!''

They danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash.

``Tired?'' he asked, still holding her.

She smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a little cry.

``Oh! I'm caught – there, on your coat!''

He leaned over her to detach the shred of silk.

``Where is it? Oh! Here!''

And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis.

``You see,'' he said, ``it will always draw me to you.''

But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm.

When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor Colonel.

``Old dog thinks I know him,'' he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in. Yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself.

``Time for supper, you know,'' suggested Clifford.

Yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great plumes to and fro.

``Who are those people in the next box?'' she asked him. ``They do make such a noise.''

``There are only two, both masked.''

``But they have unmasked now. There are their velvets on the edge of the box. I'm going to take a peep,'' she whispered, rising and leaning across the railing.

``Don't; I wouldn't – '' began Gethryn, but he was too late.

Yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her chair, deathly pale.

``My God! Are you ill, Yvonne?''

``Oh, Rex, Rex, take me away – home – ''

Then came a loud hammering on the box door. A harsh, strident voice called, ``Yvonne! Yvonne!''

Clifford thoughtlessly threw it open, and a woman in evening dress, very decolletée, swept by him into the box, with a waft of sickly scented air.

Yvonne leaned heavily on Gethryn's shoulder; the woman stopped in front of them.

``Ah! here you are, then!''

Yvonne's face was ghastly.

``Nina,'' she whispered, ``why did you come?''

``Because I wanted to make you a little surprise,'' sneered the woman; ``a pleasant little surprise. We love each other enough, I hope.'' She stamped her foot.

``Go,'' said Yvonne, looking half dead.

``Go!'' mimicked the other. ``But certainly! Only first you must introduce me to these gentlemen who are so kind to you.''

``You will leave the box,'' said Gethryn, in a low voice, holding open the door.