them. Abandoning Jinny to her fate, Ryder sought refuge and a
cigarette.

The hall was crowded now; the ball was a flash of color, a whirl of
satins and spangles and tulle and gauze, gold and green and rose and
sapphire, gyrating madly in vivid projection against the black and
white stripes of the Moorish walls. The color and the music had sent
their quickening reactions among the throng. Masks were lending
audacity to mischief and high spirits.

Three little Pierrettes scampered through the crowd, pelting right
and left with confetti and balloons, and two stalwart monks and a
thin Hamlet pursued them, keeping up the bombardment amid a great
combustion of balloons. A spangled Harlequin snatched his hands
full of confetti and darted behind a palm.

It was the palm of the black phantom, the palm of Ryder's rebuff.
Perhaps the Harlequin had met repulse here, too, and cherished
resentment, not a very malicious resentment but a mocking feint of
it, for when Ryder turned sharply after him--oddly, he himself was
strolling toward that nook--he found Harlequin circling with mock
entreaties about the stubbornly refusing black domino.

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the
dance?" chanted Harlequin, with a shower of confetti flung at the
girl's averted face.

There was such a shrinking of genuine fright in her withdrawal that
Ryder had a fine thrill of rescue.