She was interrupted by a partner, and went whirling down the bright hall to the tingling measures of a new waltz; yet all the while she was thinking of the moment she had stood face to face with Maurice. She scoffed at herself for giving so much weight to a thing so trifling; she made a strong effort to appear gay, only the more keenly to realize that at heart she was miserable. Mrs. Staggchase, on her way out of the hall a little later, stopped and spoke to her. "Come, Bee, it is time for you to go home. You don't seem to profit by the godly example of Elsie Wilson at all." "Heaven forbid that I should take her as my exemplar!" Berenice flung back with unnecessary fervor. "Well," Mrs. Staggchase observed good-humoredly, "there are things in which it is conceivable that you might find a better model. By the way, what did Cousin Maurice say to you when you gave him that german favor? Of course I haven't any right to ask, but you see I am interested in bringing the boy up properly." Berenice flushed with confusion and vexation. "It was something no gentleman would have said!" "Ah," the other returned with perfect calmness, "that is the danger of doing an unladylike thing. It is so apt to provoke an ungentlemanly return. Men, you know, my dear, haven't the fine instincts that we have. However, I'm sorry that Maurice didn't behave better than you did. Good-night, dear." Mrs. Staggchase had hardly gone when Parker Stanford came up with a favor. "I am tired, Mr. Stanford," Berenice said. "Thank you, but you had better ask some one else." "I'd rather sit it out with you," he answered. "Nonsense; one doesn't sit out turns in the german." "They do if they wish." "Well, instead of sitting it out," she said, rising, "let us go and get a cup of bouillon. I feel the need of something to hold me up." "Here is your favor," remarked Stanford, as they passed down the hall. It was an absurd Japanese monster, with eyes goggling out of its head. "How horrible!" cried Berenice. "It looks exactly like old Christopher Plant when he is talking about his last invention in sauces. Don't you know the way in which he sticks out his eyes, and says: 'It is the greatest misfortune in nature that the nerves of taste do not extend all the way down to the stomach!'" Stanford laughed gleefully. "Jove, I don't know but he's right. Think of tasting a cocktail all the way down to the stomach!" "Or a quinine pill!" returned she with a grimace. "Thank you, no. Things are bad enough as they are." At the door of the supper-room they encountered Dr. Wilson, with a bud on his arm. "Well, Miss Morison," he exclaimed, with his usual jovial brusqueness, "I thought that my wife was the cheekiest woman in Boston, but you ran her hard to-night." "Oh, even if I surpassed her," Berenice retorted in sudden anger, yet forcing herself to speak laughingly, "she is entirely safe to leave the reputation of the family in the hands of her husband."