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. Berenice flushed, recognizing a favor which she had given him early in the evening. "Now this," he said, "I put away next to my heart, you observe." "The giver would be flattered," Berenice observed. "Was it Clare Tophaven?" He looked at her, laughing; then seemed to reflect. "I don't know that it is right to tell you," he returned; "but if you won't mention it, I'll confide to you that it must have been Miss Tophaven. Sweet girl." "Very. Are congratulations in order?" Berenice inquired. She was pleased that the talk had taken this bantering tone, and secretly determined to keep it away from dangerous seriousness. "Somewhat premature, I should say," Stanford replied. "You see she has no suspicion of my devotion, and her engagement to Fred Springer is to come out next week." The bit of gossip served Berenice well. She had heard it already, but it was easy to feign surprise, and to chat lightly about the match, as if she had not a thought beyond it in her mind. To her amazement and disconcerting Stanford cut through the light talk to demand with sudden gravity:-- "And when may our engagement be announced, Berenice?" She regarded him with startled eyes, but she held herself well in hand, managing to use the same jesting tone in which she had been speaking. "Certainly not before it exists," was her answer. He leaned toward her eagerly. The room was almost deserted, and they sat in the shelter of a great palm, so that she felt herself to be alone with him. "Don't try to put me off," he pleaded. "I am in earnest." She rose quickly, setting her cup down in the tub of the palm. "Come," she said, "you forget that I am dancing the german with Mr. Van Sandt. He will have no idea what has become of me." Stanford stood before her, barring her way.