"Every man is married--or hopes to be," said I.
She tapped me again with her fan.
"You forget, again," she said. "Folly never--moralizes."
"True," said I, "she hasn't any morals."
"Why make Folly feminine?" she asked. "Methinks, there is usually a
Knave for every Queen."
"Methinks, I know one Queen who could have Knaves as many as she
listed," I answered, bending down and trying to see her eyes.
But she quickly interposed her fan.
"I am masked, monsieur," she said.
I ignored the reproof. "That," said I, "is my supreme regret."
"_Merci, mon ami_," she said. "You may kiss my hand when you leave me."
"Only your hand?" I asked.
"Not even that, now," she retorted--then turned and leaned against the
hedge.
Two men were coming down the path toward us.
"Here are the other twin Knaves," she said.
And it was true enough--they were as alike as Moore and myself; only,
they wore white satin small clothes and powdered perukes. They were in
earnest conversation, but broke off as they neared us.
"_Parbleu_!" exclaimed the man with us. "There seems to be a plague of
twins to-night."
One of the White Masques made as though to halt, but the other
whispered something and tried to draw him on.
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