I saw, or thought I saw, just a chance
glance toward where I stood, near the foot of the Row of Mystery, as
they called it. I looked a second time, and then all doubt whatever
vanished.
If this girl in the black laces, with the gold comb in her hair, and the
gold-shot little shoes just showing at the edge of her gown, and the
red rose at her hair, held down by the comb--half hidden by the pile of
locks caught up by the ribbon of the mask--if this girl were not the
mysterious Ellen, then indeed must Ellen look well to her laurels, for
here, indeed, was a rival for her!
I began to edge through the ranks of young men who gathered there,
laughing, beseeching, imploring, claiming. The sparkle of the scene was
in my veins. The breath of the human herd assembled, sex and sex, each
challenging the other, gregarious, polygamous.
I did not walk; the music carried me before her. And so I bowed and
murmured, "I have waited hours for my hostess to present me to Miss
Ellen." (I mumbled the rest of some imaginary name, since I had heard
none.)
The girl pressed the tip of her fan against her teeth and looked at me
meditatively.
"And ours, of course, is _this_ dance," I went on.
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