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 pricked with this monkish title 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 assertion 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.
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