yer
did she say that night.
CHAPTER VII.
It was the first day of Carnival. The determination to enjoy herself
was so strong in Mae, that her face fairly shone with her "good time
coming." She popped her head out of the doorway, and flung a big handful
of confetti right at Eric, but he dodged, and Norman Mann caught it in
his face. Then, seeing a try-to-be-dignified look creeping upon Mae, he
seized the golden moment, gathered up such remnants of confetti as were
tangled in his hair and whiskers, and flung them back again, shouting:
"Long live King Pasquino! So his reign has begun, has it?"
"Yes; King Pasquino is lord, now, for ten whole days," and she slowly
edged her right hand about, to take aim again at Norman. He saw her, and
frustrated the attempt by catching it and emptying the contents out
upon the floor. The little white balls rolled off to the corners and the
little hand fell slowly by Mae's side. "Why not go down to the Corso,
you and I, and see the beginning of the fun?" suggested Norman.
"Come along," cried Mae, "you, too, Eric," and the three started off
like veritable children, in a delightful, familiar, old-time way.
Arrived at their loggia, they found an old woman employed in filling,
with confetti, a long line of boxes, fastened to the balustrade of the
balcony. Little shovels, also, were provided, for dealing out the tiny
missals of war upon the heads below. There were masks in waiting, some
to be tied on, while others terminated in a handle, by a skilful use of
which they could be made as effective as a Spanish lady's fan. Mae chose
one of these latter.
The Corso was alive with vendors of small bouquets and bon-bons and
little flying birds tied in live agony to round yellow oranges. The
fruit in turn was fastened to a long pole and so thrust up to the
balconies as a tempting bait. If bought, the birds and flowers were
tossed together into the streets to a passing friend. As Mae was gazing
rapturously over the balcony, laughing at the few stragglers hurrying
to the Piazza del Popolo, admiring the bannered balconies and gay
streamers, several of these little birds were thrust up to her face,
some of them peeping piteously and flapping their poor wings. She put up
her hands and caught the oranges, one--two--three--four. In a moment
she had freed the fluttering birds and tossed the fruit back into the
street. "Pay them, Eric," she cried indignantly; "Why, what is this?"
for one of the lit
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