Part 47 (1/2)
”Well, instead of sitting it out,” she said, rising, ”let us go and get a cup of bouillon. I feel the need of something to hold me up.”
”Here is your favor,” remarked Stanford, as they pa.s.sed down the hall.
It was an absurd j.a.panese monster, with eyes goggling out of its head.
”How horrible!” cried Berenice. ”It looks exactly like old Christopher Plant when he is talking about his last invention in sauces. Don't you know the way in which he sticks out his eyes, and says: 'It is the greatest misfortune in nature that the nerves of taste do not extend all the way down to the stomach!'”
Stanford laughed gleefully.
”Jove, I don't know but he's right. Think of tasting a c.o.c.ktail all the way down to the stomach!”
”Or a quinine pill!” returned she with a grimace. ”Thank you, no.
Things are bad enough as they are.”
At the door of the supper-room they encountered Dr. Wilson, with a bud on his arm.
”Well, Miss Morison,” he exclaimed, with his usual jovial brusqueness, ”I thought that my wife was the cheekiest woman in Boston, but you ran her hard to-night.”
”Oh, even if I surpa.s.sed her,” Berenice retorted in sudden anger, yet forcing herself to speak laughingly, ”she is entirely safe to leave the reputation of the family in the hands of her husband.”
Dr. Wilson chuckled with perfect good-nature.
”Oh, we men are not in it with the women,” laughed he.
He pa.s.sed on with his companion, and Berenice, with feminine perversity, avenged herself upon the girl he was escorting.
”How stout Miss Harding is,” she commented. ”It is such a pity for a bud.”
”But she is pretty,” Stanford returned.
”Oh, yes, in a way. She has the face of an overripe cherub.”
He laughed and led her to a seat.
”Take your picture of Mr. Plant,” said he, ”and I will get you the bouillon.”
”No, I can't have anything so hideous. Give me one of yours instead.
I'll have that little fat monk.”
”All that I have is at your service,” he responded with seriousness sounding through the mock gravity, as he unpinned the little mask and put it into her hand.
”Thank you, but I don't ask your all. I hope that you didn't value this especially.”
”Not that I remember. I haven't an idea who gave it to me.”
”You don't seem to value a gift on account of the giver.”
”That depends,” returned he. ”Now there are some givers whose favors I cherish most carefully.”