But
outside the house the Italian gardens are open, little lanterns spot them
like elf-lights, shining on hedge-green, pale marble; the night is pallid
with near and crowded stars, the air warm as Summer water, sweet as dear
youth.
The unmasking is to take place at midnight and it is past eleven when
Oliver drops back into the stag line after being stuck for a dance and a
half with a leaden-footed human flower-basket who devoted the entire time
to nervous giggles and the single coy statement that she just knew he
never could guess who she was but she recognized him perfectly. He starts
looking around for Ted. There he is, scanning the clown's parade with the
eyes of an anxious hawk, disgruntled nervousness plain in every line of
his body. Then Oliver remembers that he saw a slim Chinese girl in loose
blue silks go off the floor ten minutes or so ago with a tall musketeer.
He goes over and touches Ted on a particolored arm--the latter is dressed
as a red and gilt harlequin--and feels the muscles he touches twitch under
his hand.
"Cigarette? It's getting hotter than cotton in here--they'll have to open
more windows--"
"What?" Then recognizing voice and glasses "Oh yeah--guess so--awful mob,
isn't it?" and they thread their way out into the cool.
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