small person, with the black silk hubarah of the Mohammedan
high-caste woman drawn down to her very brows, and over the entire
face the black street veil. Not a feature visible. Not an eyebrow.
Not an eyelash, not a hint of the small person herself, except a
very small white, ringed hand, lifted as if in defense of his
clumsiness.

"Sorry," said Ryder quickly, and driven by the instinct of
reparation. "Won't you dance?"

A mute shake of the head.

Well, his duty was done. But something, the very lack of all
invitation in the black phantom, made him linger. He repeated his
request in French.

From behind the veil came a liquidly soft voice with a note of
mirth. "I understand the English, monsieur," it informed him.

"Enough, then, to say yes in it?"

The black phantom shook its head. "My education, alas! has only
proceeded to the N." Her speech was quaint, unhesitating, but oddly
inflected. "I regret--but I am not acquainted with the yes."

A gay character for a masked ball! Indifference and pique swung
Ryder towards a geisha girl, but a trace of irritation lingered and
he found her, "You likee plink gleisha?" singularly witless.

He'd tell McLean just how darned captivating his outfit was, he