I saw, or thought I saw, just a chance glance toward where I stood, near the foot of the Row of Mystery, as they called it.

I looked a second time, and then all doubt whatever vanished.
If this girl in the black laces, with the gold comb in her hair, and the gold-shot little shoes just showing at the edge of her gown, and the red rose at her hair, held down by the comb--half hidden by the pile of locks caught up by the ribbon of the mask--if this girl were not the mysterious Ellen, then indeed must Ellen look well to her laurels, for here, indeed, was a rival for her! I began to edge through the ranks of young men who gathered there, laughing, beseeching, imploring, claiming.

The sparkle of the scene was in my veins.

The breath of the human herd assembled, sex and sex, each challenging the other, gregarious, polygamous.
I did not walk; the music carried me before her.

And so I bowed and murmured, "I have waited hours for my hostess to present me to Miss Ellen." (I mumbled the rest of some imaginary name, since I had heard none.) The girl pressed the tip of her fan against her teeth and looked at me meditatively.
"And ours, of course, is _this_ dance," I went on.
"If I could only remember all the names--" she began hesitatingly.
"I was introduced as Jack C., of Virginia." "Yes?
And in what arm ?" "Cavalry," I replied promptly.