"
Dr. Wilson chuckled with perfect good-nature.
"Oh, we men are not in it with the women," laughed he.
He passed 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."
He took from his breast-pocket a little Greek flag of silk, neatly
folded.
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