Fair, flushed
softly, more beautiful than all the rest in his eyes, Berenice came on,
her hair curling about her forehead, her eyes shining with laughter and
pleasure. She was dressed in white, and at one shoulder, crushed
against her bare, creamy neck, was a bunch of crimson roses. Maurice
trembled at the sight of her beauty; he reddened at the consciousness
of her dress; over him came some inexplicable sense of fear.
Suddenly he perceived that she had caught sight of him. He could see
the look of amazement rise in her face, give place to one of amusement,
then change instantly into sparkling mischievousness. He moved on
toward her, abashed, bewildered, feeling as if he were running a
gauntlet. He could not withdraw his gaze from her, as she came quickly
onward, dimpling, smiling, her face overflowing with saucy fun, her
glance holding his.
"Good-evening, Mr. Wynne," she said lightly, coming up to him. "This is
an unexpected pleasure."
"Good-evening," Maurice responded, hardly able to drag the words out of
his parched throat.
"Of course you came for the german," Miss Morison went on, more
mockingly than before.
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