"Hallo! What the devil's that?" he heard behind him.
"The skeleton at the feast," responded one voice.
"Oh, it's some devilish trick of Mrs. Wilson's, of course," put in
another.
All this Maurice heard with an outraged sense that there was no attempt
to prevent him from hearing. He might have been a servant or a piece of
furniture for any restraint these men put upon their speech. He was
troubled with the fear of what absurdity Mrs. Wilson might intend. Now
that he was here, however, he would go on. The natural obstinacy of his
temper asserted itself, and if there was little pious meekness in his
spirit at that moment, there was plenty of grit.
The ball-room was garlanded with wreaths of laurel stuck thickly with
red roses; women in white and in bright-hued gowns, with fair shoulders
and arms, were floating about in the embraces of men; the music set
everything to a rhythmic pulse, and gaily quickened the blood in the
veins of the young deacon as he looked. The throbbing of the violins
made him quiver with an excitement joyous and bewildering. He was
dazzled by the bright, moving figures, the shining colors, the
sparkling of gems, the lovely faces, the alluring creamy necks and
arms; a sweet intoxication began to creep over him, despite the
defiance of his feelings toward the men he had passed in the doorway.
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