m. He pressed forward against the egress of the
dancers. He pressed forward roughly, and once or twice he heard
grumbling murmurs because he had deranged a difficult piece of
costumery. He was conscious of angry masks regarding him; and then he
was free of the crowd, and before him, talking together under a canopy
of holly were the two pierrettes. The musicians sat among the palms
looking at him as they rested upon their instruments. Michael felt that
his voice was going to refuse to utter her name:

"Lily! Lily!"

The pierrette with the pale blue pompons turned at the sound of his
voice. Why did she not step forward to greet him, if indeed she were
Lily? She was, she was Lily: the other pierrette had turned to see what
she was going to do.

"I say, how on earth did you recognize me?" Lily murmured, raising her
mask and looking at Michael with her smile that was so debonair and
tender, so scornful and so passionate.

"I saw you in November coming out of the Orient. I tried to get across
the road to speak to you, but you'd gone before I could manage it.
Where have you been all these years? Once I went to Trelawny Road, but
the house was empty." He could not tell her that Drake had been the
first to bring him news of her.

"It's years since I was there," said Lily. "Years and years." She turned
to call her friend, and the pierrette with the rose pompons came closer
to be introduced.

"Miss Sylvia Scarlett: Mr. Michael Fane. Aren't I good to remember your
name quite correctly?" Michael thought that her mouth for a moment was
utterly scornful. "What made you come here? Have you got a friend with
you?"

Michael explained that he was alone, and that his visit here was an
accident.

"Why did _you_ come?" he asked.

"Oh, something to do," said Lily. "We live near here."

"So do I," said Michael hastily.

"Do you?" Her eyebrows went up in what he imagined was an expression of
rather cruel interrogation. "This is a silly sort of a show. Still, even
Covent Garden is dull now."

Michael thought what a fool he had been not to include Covent Garden in
his search. How well he might have known she would go there.

"Where's Doris?" he asked.

Lily shrugged her shoulders.

"I never see anything of her nowadays. She married an actor. I don't
often get letters from home, do I, Sylvia?"

The pierrette with rose pompons, who ever since her introduction had
still been standing outside the conversation, now raised her mas