“‘Strange,’ thinks I.  ‘Chinks an’ Portugoose we expects here, likewise Annamites and Senegalese an’ doughboys; but I never heard that the BUFFALO BILL aggregation had taken the war-path.’

“He passes, and a little Geisha comes tripping by.  I rubs my eyes an’ says, ‘British Constitootian’ correctly; but she was followed by a Gipsy King and a Welsh Witch.  Then I sees a masked Toreador coming along, and I decides to arsk him all about it.  The language question didn’t worry me any.  I can pitch the cuffer in any bat from Tamil to Arabic, an’ the only chap I couldn’t compree was a deaf-an’-dumb man who suffered from St. Vitus’ Dance, which made ’im stutter with his fingers.

“‘Hi, caballero,’ says I, ‘where’s the bull-fight?’

“‘It isn’t a bull-fight, M’sieur,’ he replies.  ‘It’s Mi-Careme.’

“‘If he’s an Irishman,’ I says, ’I never met him; but if it’s a kind of pastry I’ll try some.’

“Then he shows me a doorway through which they was all entering, and beside it was a big yellow poster which said, ’Mi-Careme.  Grand Bal Costume.  Cavaliers, 2 francs.  Dames, 1 franc 50 centimes.’

“‘I’d love to be a cavalier at two francs a time,’ I remarks.  ’Besides, I want to make the farther acquaintance of little Perfume of Pineapple Essence who passed by just now.’

“’It will be necessary to ‘ave a costume, M’sieur,’ says Don Rodrigo.

“‘Trust me,’ I answers with dignity; ’I’ve won diplomas as a fancy-dress architect.’

“I goes to my billet and investigates the personal effects of my colleagues.  My choice fell on a Cameron kilt, a football jersey and a shrapnel helmet.  These I puts into a bundle an’ hikes back to the Hall of Dance.

“‘May I ask what M’sieur represents?’ said the doorkeeper as I paid my two francs.

“‘I haven’t started yet,’ I answers asperiously.  ’I assumes my costume as APPIUS CLAUDIUS in the dressing-room.’

“Well, when I’d finished my toilette—­regrettin’ the while that I hadn’t brought a pair of spurs to complete the costume—­I entered the ball-room.  It was a scene of East-end—­I mean Eastern—­splendour.  Carmens an’ Father Timeses, Pierrots an’ Pierrettes, Pompadours an’ Apaches was gyrating to the soft strains of the orchestra, who perspired at the piano in his shirt-sleeves.

“All of a sudden I saw my little Geisha, my Stick of Scented Brilliantine, waltzing with the Toreador, an’ my heart started beating holes in my football jersey.  When the orchestra stopped playing to light a cigarette I sought her out.

“‘O Choicest of the Fifty-seven Varieties,’ I says, ’deign to give me your honourable hand for the next gladiatorial jazz.’

“The Bull-fighter looked black, but she put her little hand in mine an’ we trod a stately measure.  Every now an’ then a shadow passed o’er the ballroom, an’ I knew it was the Toreador scowling.  But I took no notice of him, an’ we danced nearly everything on the menu, Don Rodrigo only getting an odd item now an’ then to prevent him dying of grief.