Two wands were held in her taper fingers, whose
mystery only added to the general curiosity, but whose weird and
cabalistic uses were to be seen later. Her magnificent face--
strange in its beauty--was stranger still, since, with perfect
archaeological Egyptian correctness, she presented it only in
profile, at whatever angle the spectator stood. But such a
profile! The words of the great Poet-King rose to McFeckless's
lips: "Her nose is as a tower that looketh toward Damascus."
He hesitated a moment, torn with love and jealousy, and then
presented his friend. "You will fall in love with her--and then--
you will fall also by my hand," he hissed in his rival's ear, and
fled tumultuously.
"Voulez-vous danser, mademoiselle?" whispered the Chevalier in the
perfect accent of the boulevardier.
"Merci, beaucoup," she replied in the diplomatic courtesies of the
Ambassadeurs.
They danced together, not once, but many times, to the admiration,
the wonder and envy of all; to the scandalized reprobation of a
proper few. Who was she? Who was he? It was easy to answer the
last question: the world rang with the reputation of "Chevalier the
Artist." But she was still a mystery.
Perhaps they were not so to each other! He was gazing deliriously
into her eyes. She was looking at him in disdainful curiosity.
"I've seen you before somewhere, haven't I?" she said at last, with
a crushing significance.
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