"
It was all cheap and incredibly tawdry, from the festoons of paper roses
on the walls to the flash of paste jewels in make-believe crowns. The big
hall, with its stage flanked by gilded boxes, was crowded with a shifting
throng of maskers in costumes of flaunting discord. Above the noisy
laughter and popping of corks, rose the blaring strains of a brass band.
Through the odor of flowers came the strong scent of musk, which, in
turn, was routed by the fumes of beer and tobacco which were already
making the air heavy.
On the edge of all this stood Nance Molloy, in that magic hour of her
girlhood when the bud was ready to burst into the full-blown blossom. Her
slender figure on tiptoe with excitement, her eyes star-like behind her
mask, she stood poised, waiting with all her unslaked thirst for
pleasure, to make her plunge into the gay, dancing throng. She no longer
cared if her skirts were short, and her arms and neck were bare. She no
longer thought of how she looked or how she acted. There was no Pulatki
in the wings to call her down for extra flourishes; there was no old
white face in the orchestra to disturb her conscience. Her chance for a
good time had come at last, and she was rushing to meet it with arms
outstretched.
"They are getting ready for the grand march!" cried Monte, who, with Mac,
represented the "two _Dromios_." "We separate at the end of the hall, and
when the columns line up again, you dance with your vis-a-vis."
"My who-tee-who?" asked Nance.
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