s,
winking and blinking in ironical shyness, and concluding with a
flaunting of her gown, a toe pointed ceilingward, and a lively
"breakdown." Then she vanished with a hop, skip and a bow, reappeared
with a ravishing smile and threw a generous assortment of kisses among
the audience, and disappeared with another hop, skip and a bow, as
Impecunious Jordan burst upon the spectators from the opposite side of
the stage.

Even the sight of Hans, a finger-post pointing to ways long since
traversed, could not reconcile the soldier to his surroundings; the
humor of the burnt-cork artist seemed inappropriate to the place; his
grotesque dancing inadmissible in that atmosphere once consecrated to
the comedy of manners and the stately march of the classic drama.
Where Hamlet had moralized, a loutish clown now beguiled the time with
some tom-foolery, his wit so broad, his quips were cannon-balls, and
his audience, for the most part soldiers from Mexico, open-mouthed
swallowed the entire bombardment. But Saint-Prosper, finding the
performance dull, finally rose and went out, not waiting for the
thrilling Tableaux of the Entrance into the City of Mexico of a
hundred American troops (impersonated by young ladies in tropical
attire) and the submission of Santa Anna's forces (more young ladies)
by sinking gracefully to their bended knees.

Fun and frolic were now in full swing on the thoroughfares;
Democritus, the rollicker, had commanded his subjects to drive dull
care away and they obeyed the jovial lord of laughter. Animal spirits
ran high; mischief beguiled the time; mummery romped and rioted.
Marshaled by disorder, armed with drollery and divers-hued banners,
they marched to the Castle of Chaos, where the wise are fools, the old
are young and topsy-turvy is the order of the day.

As Saint-Prosper stood watching the versicolored concourse swarm by, a
sudden rush of bystanders to view Faith on a golden pedestal, looking
more like Coquetry, propelled a dainty figure against the soldier.
Involuntarily he put out his arm which girded a slender waist; Faith
drove simpering by; the crowd melted like a receding wave, and the
lady extricated herself, breathless as one of the maids in Lorenzo de
Medici's Songs of the Carnival.

"How awkward!" she murmured. "How--"

The sentence remained unfinished and an exclamation, "Mr. Saint-Prosper!"
punctuated a gleam of recognition.

"Miss Duran!" he exclaimed, equally surprised, for he had thou