Hearts and Masks

I read this paragraph with a shrug, and that one with a smirk. I was

in no manner surprised at the announcement that Miss High-Culture was

going to wed the Duke of Impecune; I had always been certain this girl

would do some such fool thing. That Mrs. Hyphen-Bonds was giving a

farewell dinner at the Waldorf, prior to her departure to Europe,

interested my curiosity not in the least degree. It would be all the

same to me if she never came back. None of the wishy-washy

tittle-tattle interested me, in fact. There was only one little

six-line paragraph that really caught me. On Friday night (that is to

say, the night of my adventures in Blankshire), the Hunt Club was to

give a charity masquerade dance. This grasped my adventurous spirit by

the throat and refused to let go.

The atmosphere surrounding the paragraph was spirituous with

enchantment. There was a genuine novelty about this dance. Two packs

of playing-cards had been sent out as tickets; one pack to the ladies

and one to the gentlemen. Charming idea, wasn't it? These cards were

to be shown at the door, together with ten dollars, but were to be

retained by the recipients till two o'clock (supper-time), at which

moment everybody was to unmask and take his partner, who held the

corresponding card, in to supper. Its newness strongly appealed to me.

I found myself reading the paragraph over and over.

By Jove, what an inspiration!

I knew the Blankshire Hunt Club, with its colonial architecture, its

great ball-room, its quaint fireplaces, its stables and sheds, and the

fame of its chef. It was one of those great country clubs that keep

open house the year round. It stood back from the sea about four miles

and was within five miles of the village. There was a fine course

inland, a cross-country going of not less than twenty miles, a

shooting-box, and excellent golf-links. In the winter it was cozy; in

the summer it was ideal.

I was intimately acquainted with the club's M. F. H., Teddy Hamilton.

We had done the Paris-Berlin run in my racing-car the summer before.

If I hadn't known him so well, I might still have been in durance vile,

next door to jail, or securely inside. I had frequently dined with him

at the club during the summer, and he had offered to put me up; but as

I knew no one intimately but himself, I explained the futility of such

action. Besides, my horse wasn't a hunter; and I was riding him less

and less. It is no pleasure to go "parking" along the bridle-paths of

Central Park. For myself, I want a hill country and something like

forty miles, straight away; that's riding.