rseback, on elephants, on
camels--painted ladies in howdahs, painted ladies in sedan
chairs--Cleopatra, Pompadour--history reduced to pantomime, color
imposed upon color, glitter upon glitter, the beat of the tom-tom, the
crash of the band, the thin piping, as the white-turbaned snake-charmer
showed in the press of the crowd.

Christopher's eyes went to Anne. She was leaning forward, one hand
clasping the silver beads. He would have given much to know what was in
her mind. How little she was and how young. And how he wanted to get her
away from the thing which hung suspended over her like a keen-edged
sword.

But to get her away--how? He could never get her away from her thoughts.
Unless....

Suddenly he heard her laughing. Two clowns were performing with a lot of
little dogs. One of the dogs was a poodle who played the fool. "What a
darling," Anne was saying.

There was more than they could look at--each ring seemed a separate
circus--one had to have more than a single pair of eyes. Christopher was
blind to it all--except when Anne insisted, "Look--look!"

Six acrobats were in the ring--four men and two women. Their tights were
of a clear shimmering blue, with silver trunks. One could not tell the
women from the men, except by their curled heads, and their smaller
stature. They were strong, wholesome, healthy. Christopher knew the
quality of that health--hearts that pumped like machines--obedient
muscles under satin skins. One of the women whirled in a series of
handsprings, like a blue balloon--her body as fluid as quicksilver. If
he could only borrow one-tenth of that endurance for Anne--he might keep
her for years.

Then came Pantaloon, and Harlequin and Columbine. The old man was funny,
but the youth and the girl were exquisite--he, diamond-spangled and lean
as a lizard, she in tulle skirts and wreath of flowers. They did all the
old tricks of masks and slapping sticks, of pursuit and retreat, but
they did them so beautifully that Anne and Christopher sat
spellbound--what they were seeing was not two clever actors on a sawdust
stage, but love in its springtime--girl and boy--dreams, rapture,
radiance.

Then, in a moment, Columbine was dead, and Harlequin wept over
her--frost had killed the flower--love and life were at an end.

Christopher was drawing deep breaths. Anne was tense. But
now--Columbine was on her feet, and Harlequin was blowing kisses to the
audience!

"Let's get out of this," Christopher