“Mary—Mary Smith.”
“Miss Smith, then. I never begin to call the ladies by their first names until midnight—at least.”
“Tell me something—who is that woman in the gorgeous Oriental costume?”
“Where?”
“Over toward the hall door. See?”
“Oh, yes, I see. I haven’t the faintest idea who she is. But as I say, they’re all disguised from me. Besides, with this silly cowl, I can only see straight ahead! I might as well be a horse in blinders!”
“Can’t you take it off?”
“And spoil my real Cistercian rig! Never! Besides, I haven’t my tonsure on straight.”
“Do you know the host?” Carmen asked, suddenly.
“Do you mean, do I know him? or, do I know which one he is?”
“Both.”
“Yes, I am acquainted with him,” Locke said, truthfully, and mendaciously added, “but I don’t know which one he is. That Spanish Don, maybe. Don’t you know Locke at all?”
“No, but I’ve heard a lot of him.”
“Good, bad or rotten?”
“Not the last—they all say he’s a trump. But queer.”
“Queer, how?”
“Sort of a vagabond—goes off on jaunts by himself”
“Painting?”
“I suppose so. Is his work any good?”
“Middling. Not very little and not very big. But I think he’s happy in it.”
“I’m only happy when I’m dancing.”
“My heavens, I can’t dance all night!”
