A masquerade ball in a strange city hardly represented Elaine’s idea of enjoyment.  Carefully to disguise one’s identity in a neighbourhood where one was entirely unknown seemed to her rather meaningless.  With Courtenay, of course, it was different; he seemed to have friends and acquaintances everywhere.  However, the matter had progressed to a point which would have made a refusal to go seem rather ungracious.  Elaine finished her pancake and began to take a polite interest in her costume.

“What is your character?” asked Madame Kelnicort that evening, as they uncloaked, preparatory to entering the already crowded ball-room.

“I believe I’m supposed to represent Marjolaine de Montfort, whoever she may have been,” said Elaine.  “Courtenay declares he only wanted to marry me because I’m his ideal of her.”

“But what a mistake to go as a character you know nothing about.  To enjoy a masquerade ball you ought to throw away your own self and be the character you represent.  Now Courtenay has been Harlequin since half-way through dinner; I could see it dancing in his eyes.  At about six o’clock to-morrow morning he will fall asleep and wake up a member of the British House of Parliament on his honeymoon, but to-night he is unrestrainedly Harlequin.”

Elaine stood in the ball-room surrounded by a laughing jostling throng of pierrots, jockeys, Dresden-china shepherdesses, Roumanian peasant-girls and all the lively make-believe creatures that form the ingredients of a fancy-dress ball.  As she stood watching them she experienced a growing feeling of annoyance, chiefly with herself.  She was assisting, as the French say, at one of the gayest scenes of Europe’s gayest capital, and she was conscious of being absolutely unaffected by the gaiety around her.  The costumes were certainly interesting to look at, and the music good to listen to, and to that extent she was amused, but the abandon of the scene made no appeal to her.  It was like watching a game of which you did not know the rules, and in the issue of which you were not interested.  Elaine began to wonder what was the earliest moment at which she could drag Madame Kelnicort away from the revel without being guilty of sheer cruelty.  Then Courtenay wriggled out of the crush and came towards her, a joyous laughing Courtenay, looking younger and handsomer than she had ever seen him.  She could scarcely recognise in him to-night the rising young debater who made embarrassing onslaughts on the Government’s foreign policy before a crowded House of Commons.  He claimed her for the dance that was just starting, and steered her dexterously into the heart of the waltzing crowd.

“You look more like Marjolaine than I should have thought a mortal woman of these days could look,” he declared, “only Marjolaine did smile sometimes.  You have rather the air of wondering if you’d left out enough tea for the servants’ breakfast.  Don’t mind my teasing; I love you to look like that, and besides, it makes a splendid foil to my Harlequin—­my selfishness coming to the fore again, you see.  But you really are to go home the moment you’re bored; the excellent Kelnicort gets heaps of dances throughout the winter, so don’t mind sacrificing her.”