A thousand questions rose to his lips, but not one found utterance.

Again and yet again his bright glance ranged from the gay red of the bandsmen's coats to the lines of spectators sitting at the little tables under the galleries, returning inevitably and persistently to the pivot of the scene--a space of pale-colored, waxed floor in the centre of the hall, where innumerable couples whirled or glided to the tune of the waltz.
He had seen many a ball in progress, but never had he seen dancing as he saw it here, where grace rubbed shoulders with absolute _gaucherie_, and wild hilarity mingled unashamed with a curious seriousness--one had almost said iciness--of demeanor.

The women, who formed the definite interest of the picture, were for the most part young, with a youth that lent slimness and suppleness to the figure and permeated through the freely used paint and powder like some unpurchasable essence.

Among this crowd of women some were fair, some brown, a few red-haired, but the vast majority belonged to the type that was to become familiar to Max as the true _Montmartroise_--the girl possessed of the dead white face, the red, sensual lips, the imperfectly chiselled nose, attractive in its very imperfection, and the eyes--black, brown, or gray--that see in a single glance to the bottom of a man's soul.

Richness of apparel was not conspicuous among them, but all wore their clothes with the sense of fitness that possesses the _Parisienne_.