e book of illustrations, pushed it away from her,
and leaned back in her chair.

"And you think you would like to go to the Carnival Ball, hey?"

"No, I do not," said she, as she stroked her lap-dog with a long, white
hand on which glittered many rings, and steadily avoided looking at him.
She did wish to go to the ball, but she knew that it was as likely as
not that if she displayed any such desire he would prevent it. Despite
her curt reply she foresaw impending the occurrence which she most of
anything disliked--a conversation with Sir Peter. He placed himself in
our midst, and requested to look at the pictures. In silence I handed
him the book. I never could force myself to smile when he was there, nor
overcome a certain restraint of demeanor which rather pleased and
flattered him than otherwise. He glanced sharply round in the silence
which followed his joining our company, and turning over the
illustrations, said:

"I thought I heard some noise when I came in. Don't let me interrupt the
conversation."

But the conversation was more than interrupted; it was dead--the life
frozen out of it by his very appearance.

"When is the carnival, and when does this piece of tomfoolery come off?"
he inquired, with winning grace of diction.

"The carnival begins this year on the 26th of February. The ball is on
the 27th," said I, confining myself to facts and figures.

"And how do you get there? By paying?"

"Well, you have to pay--yes. But you must get your tickets from some
member of the Malkasten Club. It is the artists' ball, and they arrange
it all."

"H'm! Ha! And as what do you think of going, Adelaide?" he inquired,
turning with suddenness toward her.

"I tell you I had not thought of going--nor thought anything about it.
Herr von Francius sent us the pictures, and we were looking over them.
That is all."

Sir Peter turned over the pages and looked at the commonplace costumes
therein suggested--Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Picardy Peasant, Maria
Stuart, a Snow Queen, and all the rest of them.

"Well, I don't see anything here that I would wear if I were a woman,"
he said, as he closed the book. "February, did you say?"

"Yes," said I, as no one else spoke.

"Well, it is the middle of January now. You had better be looking out
for something; but don't let it be anything in those books. Let the
beggarly daubers see how English women do these things."

"Do you intend me to understand that you wish us to go to