LITMIR.BIZ

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brave man with a sword.

      “Oh, I hate it!” Pearl Jane shuddered. “If it’s like that, I don’t want to read it!”

      “No, you don’t,” Locke agreed; “besides, he’s out of date now. You stick to your John Masefield and Carl Sandburg.”

      “I don’t know them very well,” the girl acknowledged, “they’re rather hard, I think.”

      Now Pearl Jane Cutler was by no means a child or an ignoramus. But she had been simply brought up in a small town, and though fairly well grounded in the rudiments of Life and Literature, she had still quite a bit to learn, and was swallowing it in chunks—anaconda like. She was twenty-two, and carried a little more flesh on her young bones than the average all-city girl did. Kate Vallon, half a dozen years older, was keeping an eye on her, and she thought maybe, perhaps, possibly, after a thousand years of study. Pearl Jane might learn to paint something noisier than clay pots and onions.

      Chinese Charley appeared in the doorway.

      “They arrive,” he said, a little laconically.

      “Show them up,” Tommy ordered, as succinctly, and then the quartette hurried on their masks and the revel began.

      Locke was a little surprised at the stream of people that flowed in. He was not inhospitable, and there was room enough, but he thought Post might have told him what he was up to. He said as much to Henry Post, who responded:

      “I didn’t do it, Tommy, honest, I didn’t. But several whom I did invite, just casually said they might bring friends. I couldn’t say them nay—now could I?”

      “Rather not,” said Locke, and turned to greet some new-comers.

      But, in his mask, and his concealing robe and cowl, almost no one knew him, and so he had no duties as host. This suited him well enough, and he sauntered about, looking at the hackneyed costumes, recognizing some figure here and there, or mistakenly thinking he did.

      The studio looked festive to-night, for Kate and Henry had insisted on a few decorations and had chosen Chinese lanterns and artificial cherry blossoms. These delighted the soul of Charley, Locke’s house-boy, and he gazed up at them, now and then, beatifically picturesque.

      He was devoted to Locke, though so quiet of manner and scant of speech that there were no protestations, but he showed his affection in immaculate housekeeping and meticulous obedience to orders.

      The place was not large; only the second floor entire, and a room or two on the first floor. Supper would be served downstairs, so the big studio and one or two smaller rooms could be used for dancing. This left a small room for a smoking den, and Locke’s own bedroom for a ladies’ dressing room.

      A small orchestra arrived and soon proved that it could make jazz music out of all proportion to its size.

      Locke asked a Carmen to dance with him, thinking he knew her, but found he was again mistaken.

      “Strange how merely a mask can disguise one so thoroughly,” he said; “I’d think the face only a small part of a personality.”

      “Then it proves, practically, that the face is the whole individual,” Carmen returned, turning her mask a trifle until he saw a lovely cheek and curving lips. “But as you’ve never seen me before, you couldn’t be expected to know me.”

      “I didn’t expect to, I merely thought you were someone else.”

      “I know almost no one here,” Carmen said; “of course it makes no difference while we’re masked, but at supper time I shall know nobody.”

      “That’s all right, I’ll introduce you about, and you’ll have made dozens of friends among your partners by that time. …”

      “Who are you, Sir Monk, tell me that, at any rate.”

      “My name would mean nothing to you—it’s entirely uncelebrated.”

      “Tell me all the same”—the pretty voice was peremptory.

      “Smith,” he replied, “John Smith.”

      “And you call that name uncelebrated? One of the best known in the country. Fie, fie, Mr. Smith—just for that I shall call you John.”

      “And I may call you?”

      “Mary—Mary Smith.”

      “Miss Smith, then. I never begin to call the ladies by their first names until midnight—at least.”

      “Tell me something—who is that woman in the gorgeous Oriental costume?”

      “Where?”

      “Over toward the hall door. See?”

      “Oh, yes, I see. I haven’t the faintest idea who she is. But as I say, they’re all disguised from me. Besides, with this silly cowl, I can only see straight ahead! I might as well be a horse in blinders!”

      “Can’t you take it off?”

      “And spoil my real Cistercian rig! Never! Besides, I haven’t my tonsure on straight.”

      “Do you know the host?” Carmen asked, suddenly.

      “Do you mean, do I know him? or, do I know which one he is?”

      “Both.”

      “Yes, I am acquainted with him,” Locke said, truthfully, and mendaciously added, “but I don’t know which one he is. That Spanish Don, maybe. Don’t you know Locke at all?”

      “No, but I’ve heard a lot of him.”

      “Good, bad or rotten?”

      “Not the last—they all say he’s a trump. But queer.”

      “Queer, how?”

      “Sort of a vagabond—goes off on jaunts by himself——”

      “Painting?”

      “I suppose so. Is his work any good?”

      “Middling. Not very little and not very big. But I think he’s happy in it.”

      “I’m only happy when I’m dancing.”

      “My heavens, I can’t dance all night!”

      “There are others! That’s what I was hinting!”

      “How prettily rude you are! That’s the beauty of a masquerade—one can say anything.”

      “Can one? Then listen! I know you! I know who you are!”

      “Do you?” said Locke. “Well, I’m not so overwhelmed at that! I know who you are!”

      “Ah, but I’m telling the truth—and you’re fibbing!”

      And with a merry trill of laughter, Carmen disengaged herself from his clasping arm and ran away.

      “Foolish chit!” Locke thought, and wandered about, looking for Pearl Jane.

      The Dutch Girl was dancing with a Sailor Boy, and Locke stood to one side and watched them.

      “Funny thing about Pearl Jane,” he thought; “she’s womanly—and all that—and yet she’s little more than a child. Lucky she has Kate beside her—Kate’s a trump. But Kate’s party here to-night is rubbish! I am bored already. However, the kiddy wanted her Bal Masque, and now she’s got it. I hope she’s enjoying herself. I wonder what she’ll grow up to. It will take a jolt of some sort to waken her. She’s a dear thing—but—well, she’s Pearl Jane!”

      And then, he discovered he could claim her for a dance, and at once did so.

      “How’s the party?” he inquired, as they swung off.

      “Oh, it’s

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