Part 47 (2/2)
He took from his breast-pocket a little Greek flag of silk, neatly folded. Berenice flushed, recognizing a favor which she had given him early in the evening.
”Now this,” he said, ”I put away next to my heart, you observe.”
”The giver would be flattered,” Berenice observed. ”Was it Clare Tophaven?”
He looked at her, laughing; then seemed to reflect.
”I don't know that it is right to tell you,” he returned; ”but if you won't mention it, I'll confide to you that it must have been Miss Tophaven. Sweet girl.”
”Very. Are congratulations in order?” Berenice inquired.
She was pleased that the talk had taken this bantering tone, and secretly determined to keep it away from dangerous seriousness.
”Somewhat premature, I should say,” Stanford replied. ”You see she has no suspicion of my devotion, and her engagement to Fred Springer is to come out next week.”
The bit of gossip served Berenice well. She had heard it already, but it was easy to feign surprise, and to chat lightly about the match, as if she had not a thought beyond it in her mind. To her amazement and disconcerting Stanford cut through the light talk to demand with sudden gravity:--
”And when may our engagement be announced, Berenice?”
She regarded him with startled eyes, but she held herself well in hand, managing to use the same jesting tone in which she had been speaking.
”Certainly not before it exists,” was her answer.
He leaned toward her eagerly. The room was almost deserted, and they sat in the shelter of a great palm, so that she felt herself to be alone with him.
”Don't try to put me off,” he pleaded. ”I am in earnest.”
She rose quickly, setting her cup down in the tub of the palm.
”Come,” she said, ”you forget that I am dancing the german with Mr. Van Sandt. He will have no idea what has become of me.”
Stanford stood before her, barring her way.
”Hang Van Sandt! You should be dancing with me, only I had to do the polite to this everlasting English girl. I wish she was in Australia. I wonder why in the world an English girl is never able to learn to dance.”
”That I cannot answer. Perhaps their feet are too big; but you must go back to her all the same, whether she can dance or not.”
”Not until you answer me. You know you are keeping me on hot coals, Berenice. You know I love you.”
She flushed, drew back, grew pale.
”I have answered you already,” she replied, hurriedly but firmly. ”Why must you make me say it again? I don't love you, and that is reason enough why you shouldn't care for me.”
”It isn't any reason at all. I should be fond of you anyway. Why, even if you made a guy of me before everybody as you did to-night of that clerical thing”--
”Stop!” Berenice interrupted, her color rising and her eyes s.h.i.+ning. ”I will not have you speak of Mr. Wynne in that way. What I did was bad enough.”
”Berenice,” demanded Stanford, regarding her keenly, ”do you mean to marry _him_?”
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