"I prefer the dolls," concluded Dr. Florret.

"I admit they are pretty," answered Washburn.

"I remember," said my father, "the first masked ball I ever went to
when I was a student in Paris. It struck me just as you say, Hal;
everybody was so exactly alike. I was glad to get out into the street
and see faces."

"But I thought they always unmasked at midnight," said the second Mrs.
Teidelmann in her soft, languid tones.

"I did not wait," explained my father.

"That was a pity," she replied. "I should have been interested to see
what they were like, underneath."

"I might have been disappointed," answered my father. "I agree with
Dr. Florret that sometimes the mask is an improvement."

Barbara was right. She was a beautiful woman, with a face that would
have been singularly winning if one could have avoided the hard cold
eyes ever restless behind the half-closed lids.

Always she was very kind to me. Moreover, since the disappearance of
Cissy she was the first to bestow again upon me a good opinion of my
small self. My mother praised me when I was good, which to her was
the one thing needful; but few of us, I fear, child or grown-up, take
much pride in our solid virtues, finding them generally hindrances to