cidentel gruff note does sometimes betray us. But usually the gallant comprehends, sympathizes, and merely laughs at a good joke on himself.
The Philhedonic Ball is the spectacle of a lifetime. I do not approve all that transpires. The two large orchestras, playing alternately, pour forth continuously into the inebriated ears of the three thousand revellers the thrilling music of the most voluptuous dances, rightly tabooed by all decent society. The revellers are as impious a crowd as ever gathers in America. I would approve the police's radically restricting the present license. I am sure we hermaphroditoi are not among those who give the ball a bad name.
Some of the costumes have been ordered from Paris and London. Many have already graced the Mardi Gras of New Orleans or Nice. Practically every romantic or grotesque character ever heard of is on the floor: monkeys, parrots, geese, yellow kids, foxy grandpa, Happy Hooligan, Cupid, Mephistopheles, and a thousand others.
At a Philhedonic Ball of about ten years ago—at which the most remarkable blackmail episode of my life had its origin—I impersonated Euterpe. Down to my debacle, money fortunately came easy with me. I therefore endeavored to adorn every Masked Ball with the most elaborate feminine costume on display there. My Euterpe gown, terminating at the knees, was of turquoise satin. It was ornamented with several flounces of miniature sleigh bells washed in gold. Whenever I moved, they emitted a melodious jingle. My silk, open-work stockings were of an azure hue, and the pumps of purple kid, with mother-of-pearl buckles. My chevelure was surmounted with a gold-
