a rhythmic, swinging waltz—­his eyes blinked before the flood of light to which the Parisian pins his faith for public pleasures—­and his nostrils were assailed by a penetrating smell of scent and smoke.  Dazed and a little frightened he drew back against a wall, overwhelmed by the atmosphere.  Superficially there was little astonishing in the Bal Tabarin; but to the uninitiated being with wide eyes it seemed in very truth the gay world, with its stirring music, its walls flaunting their mirrors and their paintings, its galleries with their palms and railed-in boxes, and beneath—­subtly suggestive adjunct—–­ the bars, with their countless bottles of champagne, bottles of every conceivable size built up in serried rows as though Venus would raise an altar to Bacchus.

Leaning back against the wall, Max surveyed the scene, fascinated and confused.  A thousand questions rose to his lips, but not one found utterance.  Again and yet again his bright glance ranged from the gay red of the bandsmen’s coats to the lines of spectators sitting at the little tables under the galleries, returning inevitably and persistently to the pivot of the scene—­a space of pale-colored, waxed floor in the centre of the hall, where innumerable couples whirled or glided to the tune of the waltz.

He had seen many a ball in progress, but never had he seen dancing as he saw it here, where grace rubbed shoulders with absolute gaucherie, and wild hilarity mingled unashamed with a curious seriousness—­one had almost said iciness—­of demeanor.  The women, who formed the definite interest of the picture, were for the most part young, with a youth that lent slimness and suppleness to the figure and permeated through the freely used paint and powder like some unpurchasable essence.  Among this crowd of women some were fair, some brown, a few red-haired, but the vast majority belonged to the type that was to become familiar to Max as the true Montmartroise—­the girl possessed of the dead white face, the red, sensual lips, the imperfectly chiselled nose, attractive in its very imperfection, and the eyes—­black, brown, or gray—­that see in a single glance to the bottom of a man’s soul.  Richness of apparel was not conspicuous among them, but all wore their clothes with the sense of fitness that possesses the Parisienne.  Each head was held at the angle that best displayed the well-dressed hair and cleverly trimmed hat; each light skirt was held waist-high with a dexterity that allowed the elaborate petticoat to sweep out from the neat ankles in a whirl of lace.

Some of these girls danced with pleasure-seeking young Englishmen or Americans in conventional evening dress, others with little clerks in ill-fitting clothes and bowler hats, while many chose each other for partners, and glided over the waxed floor in a perfection of motion difficult to excel.

Leaning back against the wall, he watched the picture, gaining courage with familiarity, and unconsciously a little gasp of regret parted his lips as the waltz crashed to a finish and the dancers moved in a body toward the tables and the bars.  Then for the first time he remembered Blake, and, looking round, saw his green eyes fixed upon him in a quizzical, satirical glance.