Part 45 (1/2)

”Ah,” cried Mrs. Wilson, ”have you come, ghostly father?”

The men stared at him in careless surprise and open amus.e.m.e.nt. Maurice could not trust himself to speak, but only bowed in silence.

”I am called, you see,” Mrs. Wilson said gayly. ”Now I must go to penance and confession.”

”Surely you will need so little time for confession,” one of the men said, ”that there's no necessity of going so early.”

”You must have been more wicked this winter than I ever suspected, Elsie,” put in the even voice of Mrs. Staggchase. ”Or is it that you only mean to be?”

Maurice turned quickly, and found that his cousin was sitting behind the table near which he stood. In front of her were heaps of trinkets of all sorts of fantastic devices.

”Good evening, Cousin Maurice,” she greeted him. ”Are you dancing? What sort of a favor ought I to give you?”

”Mrs. Wilson's wickedness,” Stanford answered Mrs. Staggchase, ”is of the sort so original that I'm sure the recording angel must always be too surprised to put it down.”

”What a premium you put on originality!” responded Mrs. Staggchase.

”That is all very well for her, but how is it for her victims?”

”Oh, the honor of being her victim is compensation enough for them.”

Mrs. Wilson laughed, and shook her head, twinkling with diamonds which dazzled the eyes of the young deacon.

”You are all worldly,” she retorted. ”Brother Martin and I are too unsophisticated to understand you.”

Maurice winced at the name. He felt that he must be a picture of confusion. To stand here among these sumptuously dressed women, to endure the glances which he knew were watching him from all parts of the room, to be p.r.i.c.ked with this monkish t.i.tle by a woman who was making of him and of the whole incident a sport and a spectacle, stung him to the quick. He thought of Berenice, and he cast at Mrs.

Staggchase a look of defiance, lifting his head proudly in a.s.sertion of his hurt dignity.

”I am at your service, Mrs. Wilson,” he said with cold sternness.

”Well, we will go then. Unless, that is, you are dancing, Mr. Wynne. I see that you have a favor.”

He glanced down at the grotesque little mask, dangling by its red ribbon. With unbroken gravity he detached and laid it upon the table in silence. He would have given much to hide it in his pocket, since it came from Berenice; but even as he put it down a bevy of girls swept up for favors, and one of them bore it away.

”He has abandoned his opportunity,” Mrs. Staggchase observed. ”The favor goes to Mr. Stanford.”

The girl who had taken up the mask was indeed pinning it to the coat of that gentleman, with whom she quickly danced away. Maurice felt his heart grow hot, but he looked at his cousin with face hard and determined.

”It was never mine,” he said, ”except by the chance of a misunderstanding.”

A maid now came forward with a black domino, which Mrs. Wilson slipped into gracefully, drawing up her glittering draperies. The big diamond on the toe of her slipper glowed fantastically, peeping from beneath the penitential robe.

”Hallo,” Dr. Wilson exclaimed, coming up at this moment, ”what's in the wind now? Is this turning into a masquerade?”

”Your wife is about to retire from the world,” Mrs. Hubbard answered, laughing.

”With a man,” Mrs. Staggchase added, her eyes s.h.i.+ning on her cousin.

Wynne stabbed her with a glance of indignation.