is a true king during Mardi Gras week, and those chaps in masks are quite like court jesters. Maybe they sing of wars and love and romance—and all that rot."
"I dare say life was just as uninteresting in olden days as it is now," Eleanor remarked. "Love and romance exist mainly in books, I fancy. If they ever did exist, we've outgrown them, eh, Roly?"
Being a very rich and a very experienced young woman, Miss Banniman prided herself upon her lack of illusion. To be sure, she occasionally permitted Roland to kiss her in celebration of their engagement, but such caresses left her unperturbed; her pulses had never been stirred. She looked upon marriage as a somewhat trying, although necessary, institution. Van Dam, being equally modern and equally satiated by life's blessings, shared her beliefs in a vague way.
Manifestly, no lover could allow such an assertion as this to go unchallenged, so he rose to the defense of romance, only to hear her say:
"Nonsense! Do be sensible, Roly. Such things aren't done nowadays."
"What things aren't done?"
"Oh, those crude, primitive performances we read about in novels. Nice people don't fall in love overnight, for instance. They don't allow themselves to hate, and be jealous, and to rage about like wild animals any more."
"The idea! Your father is a perfect savage, at heart," said Mrs. Banniman. She nodded at her sleeping husband, who was roused at that moment by a fly that had strayed into his right nostril. Mr. Banniman sneezed, half opened his eyes, and murmured a feeble anathema before dozing off again. It was plain that he was not greatly enjoying the Mardi Gras.
"All men are primitive," said Roly, quoting some forgotten author, at which Eleanor eyed him languidly.
"Could you love at first sight and run off with a girl?"
"Certainly not. I'd naturally have to know something about her people—"
"Were you ever jealous?"
"You've never given me an occasion," he told her, gallantly.
"Did you ever hate anybody?"
"Um-m—no!"
"Ever been afraid?"
"Not exactly."
"Revengeful?"
"Certainly not."
She smiled. "It's just as I said. Respectable people don't allow themselves to be harrowed by crude emotions. I hate my modiste when she fails to fit me; I was jealous of that baroness at the Poinciana—the one with all those gorgeous gowns; I'm afraid of flying-machines; but that is as deep as such things go, nowadays—in our set."
Van Dam was no hand at argument, and he had a great respect for Miss Banniman's observation; moreover, he had been discussing something of which he possessed no first-hand knowledge. Therefore, he said nothing further. No one had a greater appreciation of, or took a keener pleasure in, life's unruffled placidity than the young society man. No one had a denser ignorance of its depths, its hidden currents, and its uncharted channels than he; for adventure had never come his way, romance had never beckoned him from rose-embowered balconies. And yet, as the world goes, he was a normal individual, save for the size of his income. He had not lost interest in life; he was merely interested in things which did not matter. That, after all, is quite different.
There were times, nevertheless, when he longed vaguely for something thrilling to happen, when he regretted the Oslerization of romance and the commercializing of love. Of course, adventure still existed; one could hunt big game in certain hidden quarters, if one chose. Van Dam detested stuffed heads, and it took so much time to get them. These unformed desires came to him only now and then, and he felt ashamed of them, in an idle way.
Now that the parade had passed, the visitors lost no time in leaving, and a dignified stampede toward the hotel occurred, for the gentlemen were thirsty and the ladies wished to smoke. It was due to their haste, perhaps, that Van Dam became separated from them and found himself drifting along Canal Street alone in a densely packed crowd of merrymakers. A masked woman in a daring Spanish dress chucked him under the chin; her companion showered him with confetti. A laughing Pierrot whacked him with a noisy bladder; boys and girls in ragged disguises importuned him for pennies. A very, very shapely female person, in what appeared to be the beginnings of a bathing suit, laughed over her shoulder, inviting him, with eyes that danced.
"My word!" murmured the New-Yorker. "This is worth while."
Ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of Miss Banniman's aigrettes and the ponderous figure of her father. But the gaiety of the carnival crowd had infected him, and he was loath to leave it for the Grunewald, whither his friends were bound with the unerring directness of thirsty millionaires. It was a brilliant, gorgeous afternoon; the streets were alive with color. Somewhere through this crowd, the young man idly reflected, adventure—even romance—might be stalking, if such things really existed. So he decided to linger. To be quite truthful, Van Dam's decision was made, not with any faintest idea of encountering either romance or adventure, but because a slight indigestion made the thought of a gin-fizz or a julep unbearable at the moment.
As he continued to move with the throng, the butt of badinage and the target for impudent glances, he felt a desire to be of it and in it. He yielded himself to a most indiscreet impulse. Assuring himself that he was unobserved, he stepped into a store, purchased a plain black domino and mask, donned them, and then fell in with the procession once more, dimly amused at his folly, vaguely surprised at his impropriety.
But now that he was one of the revelers he was no longer an object of their attentions; they paid no heed to him, and he soon became bored. He engaged himself in conversation with an old flower-woman, and, as she had only a solitary gardenia left in her tray, he bought it in order that she might go home. He pinned the blossom on the left breast of his domino, and wandered to the nearest corner to watch the crowds flow past.
He had been there but a moment when a girl approached and stood beside him. She was petite, and yet her body beneath its fetching Norman costume showed the rounded lines of maturity; at the edge of her mask her skin gleamed smooth and creamy; her eyes were very dark and very bright. As Mr. Van Dam was a very circumspect young man, not given to the slightest familiarity with strangers, he confined his attentions to an inoffensive inventory of her charms, and was doubly startled to hear her murmur:
"You came in spite of all, m'sieu'!"
A French girl, he thought. No doubt one of those Creoles he had heard so much about. Aloud, he said, with a bow:
"Yes, mademoiselle. I have been looking for some one like you."
Her eyes flashed to the white gardenia on his breast, then up to his own. "You were expecting some one?"
"I was. A girl, to guide me through the carnival."
"But you are early. Did you not receive the warning?"
"Warning?" he answered, confused. "I received no warning."
"I feared as much," she said, "so I came. But it was unwise of you; it was madness to risk the streets." Her eyes left his face, to scan the crowds.
He fancied she shrank from them, as if fearing observation. Van Dam was puzzled. Her voice and manner undoubtedly betrayed a genuine emotion, or else she was a consummate actress. If this were some Mardi Gras prank, he felt
