31 October 1919, Birmingham.

You had sworn to your friends, for a gammy bet, that you would crash a high society Halloween party: and only God knows how, you did it, wearing an anonymous black mask. There was no room for nervousness or rethinking, since while the gramophone was broadcasting "At The Devil’s Ball" (Maurice Burkhart, 1913) you went to the crowded dessert table: you were used to the usual "bread and honey" that the middle class could afford, but there is... You started to attack the rhubarb and the custard, while you looked around, a little lost.

"At least they’ll leave me the pear drops!" The man behind you joked: perhaps he had understood everything, behind that finly friendly smile. The mask he wore over his eyes did not cover his beauty, but not even his melancholy.