Cholmondeley Rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him in a “petit diner a la stag,” as he expressed it.

Eight months of Paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful change in Mr Rowden. For one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now wore only a mustache. For another, he had learned to like and respect a fair portion of the French students, and in consequence was respected and liked in return.

He had had two fights, in both of which he had contributed to the glory of the British Empire and prize ring.

He was a better sparrer than Clifford and was his equal in the use of the foils. Like Clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone of contention that ever fell between the two.

Clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the enthusiastic applause of Rowden. Clifford also played “The Widow Nolan’s Goat” upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos of Rowden.

Clifford drank numerous bottles of double X with Rowden, and Rowden consumed uncounted egg-flips with Clifford. They were inseparable; in fact, the triumvirate, Clifford, Elliott and Rowden, even went so far as to dress alike, and mean-natured people hinted that they had but one common style in painting. But they did not make the remark to any of the triumvirate. They were very fond of each other, these precious triumvirs, but they did not address each other by nicknames, and perhaps it was because they respected each other enough to refrain from familiarities that this alliance lasted as long as they lived.

It was a beautiful sight, that of the three youths, when they sallied forth in company, hatted, clothed, and gloved alike, and each followed by a murderous-looking bulldog. The animals were of the brindled variety, and each was garnished with a steel spiked collar. Timid people often crossed to the other side of the street on meeting this procession.

Braith laughed at the whole performance, but secretly thought that a little of their spare energy and imagination might have been spent to advantage upon their artistic productions.

Braith was doing splendidly. His last year’s picture had been hung on the line and, in spite of his number three, he had received a third class medal and had been praised — even generously — by artists and critics, including Albert Wolff. He was hard at work on a large canvas for the coming International Exhibition at Paris; he had sold a number of smaller studies, and besides had pictures well hung in Munich and in more than one gallery at home.

At last, after ten years of hard work, struggles, and disappointments, he began to enjoy a measure of success. He and Gethryn saw little of each other this winter, excepting at Julien’s. That last visit to the Rue Monsieur le Prince was never mentioned between them. They were as cordial when they met as ever, but Braith did not visit his young friend any more, and Gethryn never spoke to him of Yvonne.

“Good-bye, old chap!” Braith would say when they parted, gripping Rex’s hand and smiling at him. But Rex did not see Braith’s face as he walked away.

Braith felt helpless. The thing he most dreaded for Rex had happened; he believed he could see the end of it all, and yet he could prevent nothing. If he should tell Rex that he was being ruined, Rex would not listen, and — who was he that he should preach to another man for the same fault by which he had wasted his own life? No, Rex would never listen to him, and he dreaded a rupture of their friendship.

Gethryn had made his debut in the Salon with a certain amount of éclat. True, he had been disappointed in his expectations of a medal, but a first mention had soothed him a little, and, what was more important, it proved to be the needed sop to his discontented aunt. But somehow or other his new picture did not progress rapidly, or in a thoroughly satisfactory manner. In bits and spots it showed a certain amount of feverish brilliancy, yes, even mature solidity; in fact, it was nowhere bad, but still it was not Gethryn and he knew that.

“Confound it!” he would mutter, standing back from his canvas; but even at such times he could hardly help wondering at his own marvelous technique.

“Technique be damned! Give me stupidity in a pupil every time, rather than cleverness,” Harrington had said to one of his pupils, and the remark often rang in Gethryn’s ears even when his eyes were most blinded by his own wonderful facility.

“Some fools would medal this,” he thought; “but what pleasure could a medal bring me when I know how little I deserve it?”

Perhaps he was his own hardest critic, but it was certain that the old, simple honesty, the subtle purity, the almost pathetic effort to tell the truth with paint and brush, had nearly disappeared from Gethryn’s canvases during the last eight months, and had given place to a fierce and almost startling brilliancy, never, perhaps, hitting, but always threatening some brutal note of discord.

Even Elise looked vaguely troubled, though she always smiled brightly at Gethryn’s criticism of his own work.

“It is so very wonderful and dazzling, but — but the color seems to me — unkind.”

And he would groan and answer, “Yes, yes, Elise, you’re right; oh, I can never paint another like the one of last June!”

“Ah, that!” she would cry, “that was delicious — “ but checking herself, she would add, “Courage, let us try again; I am not tired, indeed I am not.”

Yvonne never came into the studio when Gethryn had models, but often, after the light was dim and the models had taken their leave, she would slip in, and, hanging lightly over his shoulder, her cheek against his, would stand watching the touches and retouches with which the young artist always eked out the last rays of daylight. And when his hand drooped and she could hardly distinguish his face in the gathering gloom, he would sigh and turn to her, smoothing the soft hair from her forehead, saying: “Are you happy, Yvonne?” And Yvonne always answered, “Yes, Rex, when you are.”

Then he would laugh, and kiss her and tell her he was always happy with La Belle Hélène, and they would stand in the gathering twilight until a gurgle from the now well-grown pups would warn them that the hour of hunger had arrived.

The triumvirate, with Thaxton, Rhodes, Carleton, and the rest, had been frequent visitors all winter at the “Ménagerie,” as Clifford’s bad pun had named Gethryn’s apartment; but, of late, other social engagements and, possibly, a small amount of work, had kept them away. Clifford was a great favorite with Yvonne. Thaxton and Elliott she liked. Rowden she tormented, and Carleton she endured. She captured Clifford by suffering him to play his banjo to her piano. Rowden liked her because she was pretty and witty, though he never got used to her quiet little digs at his own respected and dignified person. Clifford openly avowed his attachment and spent many golden hours away from work, listening to her singing. She had been taught by a good master and her voice was pure and pliant, although as yet only half developed. The little concerts they gave their friends were really charming — with Clifford’s banjo, Gethryn’s guitar, Thaxton’s violin, Yvonne’s voice and piano. Clifford made the programs. They were profusely illustrated, and he spent a great deal of time rehearsing, writing verses, and rehashing familiar airs (he called it “composing”) which would have been as well devoted to his easel.

In Rowden, Yvonne was delighted to find a cultivated musician. Clifford listened to their talk of chords and keys, went and bought a “Musical Primer” on the Quai d’Orsay, spent a wretched hour groping over it, swore softly, and closed the book forever.

But neither the triumvirate nor the others had been to the “Ménagerie” for over a fortnight, when Rowden, feeling it incumbent upon him to return some of Gethryn’s hospitality, issued very proper cards — indeed they were very swell cards for the Latin Quarter — for a “dinner,” to be followed by a “quiet evening” at the Bal Masqué at the Opera.

The triumvirate had accordingly tied up their brindled bulldogs, “Spit,” “Snap” and “Tug”; had donned their white ties and collars of awful altitude, and were fully prepared to please and to be pleased. Although it was nominally a “stag” party, the triumvirate would as soon have cut off their tender mustaches as have failed to invite Yvonne. But she had replied to Rowden’s invitation by a dainty little note, ending:

and I am sure that you will understand when I say that this time I will leave you gentlemen in undisturbed possession of the evening, for I know how dearly men love to meet and behave like bears all by themselves. But I shall see you all afterward at the Opera. Au revoir then — at the Bal Masqué. Y.D.

The first sensation to the young men was one of disappointment. But the second was that Mademoiselle Descartes’ tact had not failed her.

The triumvirate were seated upon the sideboard swinging their legs. Rowden cast a satisfied glance at the table laid for fifteen and flicked an imaginary speck from his immaculate shirt front.

“I think it’s all right,” said Elliott, noticing his look, “eh, Clifford?”

“Is there enough champagne?” asked that youth, calculating four quart bottles to each person.

Rowden groaned.

“Of course there is. What are you made of?”

“Human flesh,” acknowledged the other meekly.

At eleven the guests began to arrive, welcomed by the triumvirs with great state and dignity. Rowden, looking about, missed only one — Gethryn, and he entered at the same moment.

“Just in time,” said Rowden, and made the move to the table. As Gethryn sat down, he noticed that the place on Rowden’s right was vacant, and before it stood a huge bouquet of white violets.

“Too bad she isn’t here,” said Rowden, glancing at Gethryn and then at the vacant place.

“That’s awfully nice of you, Rowden,” cried Gethryn, with a happy smile; “she will have a chance to thank you tonight.”

He leaned over and touched his face to the flowers. As he raised his head again, his eyes met Braith’s.

“Hello!” cried Braith, cordially.

Rex did not notice how pale he was, and called back, “Hello!” with a feeling of relief at Braith’s tone. It was always so. When they were apart for days, there weighed a cloud of constraint on Rex’s mind, which Braith’s first greeting always dispelled. But it gathered again in the next interval. It rose from a sullen deposit of self-reproach down deep in Gethryn’s own heart. He kept it covered over; but he could not prevent the ghost-like exhalations that gathered there and showed where it was hidden.

Speeches began rather late. Elliott made one — and offered a toast to “la plus jolie demoiselle de Paris,” which was drunk amid great enthusiasm and responded to by Gethryn, ending with a toast to Rowden. Rowden’s response was stiff, but most correct. The same could not be said of Clifford’s answer to the toast, “The struggling Artist — Heaven help him!”

Towards 1 am Mr Clifford’s conversation had become incoherent. But he continued to drink toasts. He drank Yvonne’s health five times, he pledged Rowden and Gethryn and everybody else he could think of, down to Mrs Gummidge and each separate kitten, and finally pledged himself. By that time he had reached the lachrymose state. Tears, it seemed, did him good. A heart-rending sob was usually the sign of reviving intelligence.

“Well,” said Gethryn, buttoning his greatcoat, “I’ll see you all in an hour — at the Opera.”

Braith was not coming with them to the Ball, so Rex shook hands and said “Good night,” and calling “Au revoir” to Rowden and the rest, ran down stairs three at a time. He hurried into the court and after spending five minutes shouting “Cordon!” succeeded in getting out of the door and into the Rue Michelet. From there he turned into the Avenue de l’Observatoire, and cutting through into the Boulevard, came to his h?tel.

Yvonne was standing before the mirror, tying the hood of a white silk domino under her chin. Hearing Gethryn’s key in the door, she hurriedly slipped on her little white mask and confronted him.

“Why, who is this?” cried Gethryn. “Yvonne, come and tell me who this charming stranger is!”

“You see before you the Princess Hélène, Monsieur, she said, gravely bending the little masked head.”

“Oh, in that case, you needn’t come, Yvonne, as I have an engagement with the Princess Hélène of Troy.”

“But you mustn’t kiss me!” she cried, hastily placing the table between herself and Gethryn; “you have not yet been presented. Oh, Rex! Don’t be so — so idiotic; you spoil my dress — there — yes, only one, but don’t you dare to try — Oh Rex! Now I am all in wrinkles — you — you bear!”

“Bears hug — that’s a fact,” he laughed. “Come, are you ready — or I’ll just — ”

“Don’t you dare!” she cried, whipping off her mask and attempting an indignant frown. She saw the big bunch of white violets in his hand and made a diversion by asking what those were. He told her, and she declared, delightedly, that she should carry them with Rex’s roses to the Ball.

“They shall have the preference, Monsieur,” she said, teasingly. “Oh, Rex! don’t — please — “ she entreated.

“All right, I won’t,” he said, drawing her wrap around her; and Yvonne, replacing the mask and gathering up her fluffy skirts, slipped one small gloved hand through his arm and danced down the stairs.

On the corner of the Vaugirard and the Rue de Medicis one always finds a line of cabs, and presently they were bumping and bouncing away down the Rue de Seine to the river.

Je fais ce que sa fantaisie

Veut m’ordonner,

Et je puis, s’il lui faut ma vie

La lui donner

sang Yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make Gethryn keep his distance.

“Do you know it is snowing?” he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf.

“Tant mieux!” cried the girl; “I shall make a snowball — a — ” she opened her blue eyes impressively, “a very, very large one, and — ”

“And?”

“Drop it on the head of Mr Rowden,” she announced, with cheerful decision.

“I’ll warn poor Rowden of your intention,” he laughed, as the cab rolled smoothly up the Avenue de l’Opera, across the Boulevard des Italiens, and stopped before the glittering pile of the great Opera.

She sprang lightly to the curbstone and stood tapping her little feet against the pavement while Gethryn fumbled about for his fare.

The steps of the Opera and the Plaza were covered with figures in dominoes, blue, red or black, many grotesque and bizarre costumes, and not a few sober claw hammers. The great flare of yellow light which bathed and flooded the shifting, many-colored throng, also lent a strangely weird effect to the now heavily falling snowflakes. Carriages and cabs kept arriving in countless numbers. It was half past two, and nobody who wanted to be considered anybody thought of arriving before that hour. The people poured in a steady stream through the portals. Groups of English and American students in their irreproachable evening attire, groups of French students in someone else’s doubtful evening attire, crowds of rustling silken dominoes, herds of crackling muslin dominoes, countless sad-faced Pierrots, fewer sad-faced Capuchins, now and then a slim Mephistopheles, now and then a fat, stolid Turk, ‘Arry, Tom, and Billy, redolent of plum pudding and Seven Dials, Gontran, Gaston and Achille, savoring of brasseries and the Sorbonne. And then, from the carriages and fiacres: Mademoiselle Patchouli and good old Monsieur Bonvin, Mademoiselle Nitouche and bad young Monsieur de Sacrebleu, Mademoiselle Moineau and Don C?sar Imberbe; and the pink silk domino of “La Pataude” — mais n’importe!

Allons, Messieurs, Mesdames, to the cloak room — to the foyer! To the escalier! or you, Madame la Comtesse, to your box, and smooth out your crumpled domino; as for “La Pataude,” she is going to dance tonight.

Gethryn, with Yvonne clinging tightly to his arm, entered the great vestibule and passed through the railed lanes to the broad inclined aisle which led to the floor.

“Do you want to take a peep before we go to our box?” he asked, leading her to the doorway.

Yvonne’s little heart beat faster as she leaned over and glanced at the dazzling spectacle.

“Come, hurry — let us go to the box!” she whispered, dragging Gethryn after her up the stairway.

He followed, laughing at her excitement, and in a few minutes they found the door of their lodge and slipped in.

Gethryn lighted a cigarette and began to unstrap his field glasses.

“Take these, Yvonne,” he said, handing them to her while he adjusted her own tiny gold ones.

Yvonne’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering spectacle below. Great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers.

At the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians, and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a hundred.

But there were others there who should not by any means be confounded with their sisters of the “half-world.”

The Faubourg St Germain, the Champs Elysées, and the Parc Monceau were possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. Ah, well — now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest cheeks — alas! few emergencies.

And you over there — you of the “American Colony,” who are tossed like shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and silks, it is all very new and exciting — yes, but why should you come? American women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else — why do you want to come here? Do you not know that the foundations of that liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect and confidence of men? Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of Europe.<............