out-of-the-way table in the arcade at the east end of the Garden.
For all it began so decorously, this year's ball is a particularly riotous affair and already the fantastic orgie is well under way. Masks have been scattered to the patchouli-laden winds. Yet there are a few discreet folks who, though they mingle with the mad crowd, have retained their masks. As Don Manada and his companion are comparatively removed from observation, they have laid aside their dominos for the moment and are conversing in earnest whispers.
Isabel Harding is so radiantly, magnificently, dangerously beautiful that it is a terrific strain for the gentleman at her side to maintain the least semblance of composure.
"In what does my absurdity consist?" he demands in a passionate whisper.
"Can you ask? You tell me that you love me—which I already know—and urge a suit which I have twice before told you is hopeless. You profess to believe that I could learn in time to honestly return your undoubtedly sincere affection. It is impossible. I will be honest with you. I am not one to whom love comes slowly. I love only one man, and he—don't look so murderous, Don Manada—he cares nothing for me," she finishes, bitterly.
"Come, a truce to lovemaking!" rallies Isabel. "Don't look so fiercely downcast, Don Manada. Fill up the glasses and we will drink a melancholy toast to unrequited love. We are alike unsuccessful lovers. But we will continue to be good friends."
"Impossible," replies Don Manada, as he gloomily pours out the wine. "I go to Cuba to-morrow."
"Indeed? I trust that I am not responsible for the loss of your society to your New York friends."
"No, senora. I go because duty calls me, but I had expected to wear a lighter heart than that which will accompany me."
Don Manada is too much occupied with his despair to note the peculiar look which Isabel darts at him from between her half-dropped eyelids.
