"My dance," he declared, laying an intervening hand on her muffled
arm.

His tartan-draped shoulder crowded the Harlequin from sight.

She raised her head. The black street veil was flung back, but a
black yashmak was hiding all but her eyes. Great dark eyes they
were, deep as night and soft as shadows, arched with exquisitely
curved brows like the sweep of wild birds' wings.... The most lovely
eyes that dreams could bring.

A flash of relief shone through their childish fright. With sudden
confidence she turned to Ryder.

"Thank you.... My education, monsieur, has proceeded to the Ts," she
told him with a nervous little laugh over her chagrin, drowned in a
burst of louder laughter from the discomfited Harlequin, who turned
on his heel and then bounded after fresh prey.

"Shall we dance or promenade?" asked Ryder.

Hesitatingly her gaze met his. Red and gold and green and blue
flecks of confetti were glimmering like fishscales over her black
wrap and were even entangled drolly in the absurd lengths of her
eye-lashes.

"It is--if I have not forgotten how to dance," she murmured. "If it
is a waltz, perhaps--"

It was a waltz. Ryder had an odd impression of her irresolution