She was a rare flirt, though—­that, I knew, before we had gone a hundred yards; and it kept my wits very busy to hold my own even moderately well, and to keep from giving her any clue to my identity.

“Do you know, monsieur,” she said, presently, “you and your friend are not the only two men here, to-night, who are dressed alike?”

“Are they black knaves, too?” I asked.

She tapped me on the arm with her fan.

“Don’t be sarcastic, my dear,” she said; “though, I admit, we were very forward.”

“Nonsense!” I replied.  “This is a Masque.  Only, are you quite sure we were the first men you bantered?”

“You forget, sir; Folly has no past,” she said.

“A true word, mademoiselle,” I agreed.  “Shall it be so with us when we part?”

She looked up at me a moment.

“Monsieur must be married,” she laughed.

“Every man is married—­or hopes to be,” said I.

She tapped me again with her fan.

“You forget, again,” she said.  “Folly never—­moralizes.”

“True,” said I, “she hasn’t any morals.”

“Why make Folly feminine?” she asked.  “Methinks, there is usually a Knave for every Queen.”

“Methinks, I know one Queen who could have Knaves as many as she listed,” I answered, bending down and trying to see her eyes.

But she quickly interposed her fan.

“I am masked, monsieur,” she said.

I ignored the reproof.  “That,” said I, “is my supreme regret.”

“Merci, mon ami,” she said.  “You may kiss my hand when you leave me.”

“Only your hand?” I asked.

“Not even that, now,” she retorted—­then turned and leaned against the hedge.

Two men were coming down the path toward us.

“Here are the other twin Knaves,” she said.

And it was true enough—­they were as alike as Moore and myself; only, they wore white satin small clothes and powdered perukes.  They were in earnest conversation, but broke off as they neared us.

“Parbleu!” exclaimed the man with us.  “There seems to be a plague of twins to-night.”

One of the White Masques made as though to halt, but the other whispered something and tried to draw him on.

Our fellow laughed irritatingly, and waved his hand toward Moore and me.

“We’ve got a pair of Knaves here, also,” he bantered; “perchance, the four of you are from the same pack.”

The White Masque turned quickly.  “Then it would be a pack, monsieur, in which you would be about equal to the deuce,” he said.

“Or the joker,” said the other, as they moved away, “which, in a gentleman’s game, has no place.”

Our man made a quick step toward them; but Moore caught him sharply by the shoulder.

“Let them go,” he said curtly.

The other hesitated—­then shrugged his shoulders.

“For the present be it, then,” he said.