“So I observe.  You know, in real life, one hardly ever meets an executioner who wears spectacles.  And yet, of course, if one can’t see the head properly without glasses—­”

“By Jove,” said Simpson, “there she is again.”

Columbine in a mask hurried past us and mixed with the crowd.  What one could see of her face looked pretty; it seemed to have upset Simpson altogether.

“Ask her for a dance,” I suggested.  “Be a gay dog, Simpson.  Wake London up.  At a masked ball one is allowed a certain amount of licence.”

“Exactly,” said Simpson in some excitement.  “One naturally looks for a little Continental abandon at these dances.” (Portrait of Simpson showing Continental abandon.) “And so I did ask her for a dance just now.”

“She was cold, Samuel, I fear?”

“She said, ‘Sorry, I’m full up.’”

“A ruse, a mere subterfuge.  Now, look here, ask her again, and be more debonair and dashing this time.  What you want is to endue her with the spirit of revelry.  Perhaps you’d better go to the bar first and have a dry ginger-ale, and then you’ll feel more in the Continental mood.”

“By Jove, I will,” said Simpson, with great decision.

I wandered into the ball-room and looked round.  Columbine was standing in a corner alone; some outsider had cut her dance.  As I looked at her I thought of Simpson letting himself go, and smiled to myself.  She caught the edge of the smile and unconsciously smiled back.  Remembering the good advice which I had just given another, I decided to risk it.

“Do you ever dance with architects?” I asked her.

“I do sometimes.” she said.  “Not in Lent,” she added.

“In Lent,” I agreed, “one has to give up the more furious pleasures.  Shall we just finish off this dance?  And don’t let’s talk shop about architecture.”

We finished the dance and retired to the stairs.

“I want you to do something for me,” I began cautiously.

“Anything except go into supper again.  I’ve just done that for somebody else.”

“No, it’s not that.  The fact is, I have a great friend called Simpson.”

“It sounds a case for help,” she murmured.

“He is here to-night disguised as an executioner in glasses.  He is, in fact, the only spectacled beheader present.  You can’t miss him.”

“All the same, I managed to just now,” she gurgled.

“I know.  He asked you for a dance and you rebuffed him.  Well, he is now fortifying himself with a small dry ginger, and he will then ask you again.  Do be kind this time; he’s really a delightful person when you get to know him.  For instance, both his whiskers are false.”

“No doubt I should grow to love him,” she agreed; “but I didn’t much like his outward appearance.  However, if both whiskers are false, and if he’s really a friend of yours—­”