ake was quite dry and Lady Helen
suggested that we sit down.

"This reminds me of a garden in Florence," she said. "Someone might
tell us a story from Boccaccio."

The Marquise held up her hands in affected horror.

"Helen! Helen! You're positively shocking," she said.

"Lady Helen evidently believes in living up to our costumes," I
ventured.

"Why not?" she laughed, "since the masks hide our faces?"

"Very good, my dear," said Lady Vierle, "you tell the first story; we
will take our cue from you."

Lady Helen removed her mask. "Then, that is your first cue," she said.

"I breathe easier," Mademoiselle d'Essolde remarked.

"We all do," said I--then, suddenly, replaced mine and arose.

"Indulge me for a moment," I said, and sauntered over to the path a
little distance away; nor answered the chaffing that was flung after
me. I had seen a woman in gypsy dress and a cavalier in white coming
slowly down the walk. I did not doubt it was Mrs. Spencer and Lotzen,
and I intended to let them know they were recognized.

As we neared each other, I halted and stared at them with the most
obvious deliberation. The gypsy made some remark to her companion, to
which he nodded. I had little notion they would address me; and,
certainly, none that they would stop. But, there (though whether it
was pure bravado or because my attitude was particularly irritating, I
know not), Lotzen gave me another surprise.

He paused in front of me and looked me over from head to foot.

"Monsieur seems interested," he said, making no effort to disguise his
tones.

I made no answer.

"And I hope monsieur will pardon me if I tell him his manners are
atrocious," he went on.

Again, no answer.

"Though, of course, no one could ever expect monsieur to understand
why," he continued.

Of a sudden, it dawned on my slow brain that Lotzen did not know
whether it was Moore or I that confronted him, and he wanted to hear my
voice. I saw no utility in obliging him; so, I stood impassive,
staring calmly at them.

Lotzen turned to his companion.

"Speak to him, mademoiselle," he said; "perchance the dulcet tones of
Beauty may move the Beast to speech."

I smiled at him addressing her as "mademoiselle."

She shook her head. "Methinks it's Balaam not Beauty you need."

He laughed. "Even that does not stir him--the fellow must be deaf."

"Try signs on him." she suggested.

"Good! I'll sign to him we want to see his face."

"Ho