He stopped and tried to speak; but
the chill struck through him again. An overpowering dread, an
unutterable loathing seized on him; all sense of outer
things--the whispering of the waiting-girls behind the table, the
gentle cadence of the dance music, the distant hum of joyous
talk--suddenly left him. He turned away shuddering, and quitted
the room.
Following the sound of the music, and desiring before all things
now to join the crowd wherever it was largest, he was stopped in
one of the smaller apartments by a gentleman who had just risen
from the card table, and who held out his hand with the
cordiality of an old friend.
"Welcome back to the world, Count Fabio!" he began, gayly, then
suddenly checked himself. "Why, you look pale, and your hand
feels cold. Not ill, I hope?"
"No, no. I have been rather startled--I can't say why--by a very
strangely dressed woman, who fairly stared me out of
countenance."
"You don't mean the Yellow Mask?"
"Yes I do. Have you seen her?"
"Everybody has seen her; but nobody can make her unmask, or get
her to speak. Our host has not the slightest notion who she is;
and our hostess is horribly frightened at her. For my part, I
think she has given us quite enough of her mystery and her grim
dress; and if my name, instead of being nothing but plain Andrea
D'Arbino, was Marquis Melani, I would say to her: 'Madam, we are
here to laugh and amuse ourselves; suppose you open your lips,
and charm us by appearing in a prettier dress!'"
During this conversation they had sat down together, with their
backs toward the door, by the side of one of the card-tables.
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