dance?"

Barrington turned quickly. The little crowd which had stood in front of
him had gone, and near him was a woman. It was difficult to know whether
her words were a statement of fact, question or invitation.

"I have danced, mademoiselle."

"And are now waiting for some one?"

"No. If mademoiselle will honor me I--"

"I also have danced many times, monsieur, and am inclined to rest a
little."

Barrington looked at her, and a pair of violet eyes met his glance
through her mask, deep, almost unfathomable eyes, difficult to read and
filled with the light that lures men on to strange and wonderful things.
Her auburn hair had brown and darker shadows in it, the color one may
see in a distant wood in late autumn when the sun touches it; her
transparent skin was delicately tinted, such a tint as may be seen in
rare china. Her small, well-shaped mouth seemed made for smiles, yet
there was a line of firmness in it suggestive of determination. There
was a cadence in her voice, a musical rise and fall which held an
appeal. The lines of her figure were graceful, there was youth and vigor
in every movement, and without being above the medium height, the pose
of her head on her shapely shoulders gave her a certain air of
stateliness, natural and becoming to her it seemed. She was a woman
designed for happiness and laughter, Barrington thought, and he felt she
was not happy. He wondered if there were not tears in those violet eyes,
and he had a sudden longing to behold her without a mask. It would have
been easy for her to make him again forget his mission, and why he was
in the chateau of Beauvais. Youth recognized youth, and that indefinite
longing which is a part of youth seemed to enfold them for an instant.
Perhaps the woman felt it as much as he did, for she broke the silence
rather abruptly.

"I have noticed that monsieur has not entered much into the gayety."

Barrington was on his guard in a moment. He could not afford to be
questioned too closely.

"I am greatly honored by mademoiselle's notice."

"That is nothing," she returned as though the implied compliment
displeased her. "It seemed to me you were a stranger in Beauvais, and
strangers here may have sad memories behind them."

"They do their best to forget, mademoiselle," he answered. The laughter
of a woman as she passed, dancing, gave point to the assertion. "It is
wonderful. I cannot understand it."

"Better laugh and live than die weeping," she s