"Humiliation?" she echoed. "Why, I was humiliating myself. Seriously, Mr. Wynne, I have been ashamed of that performance ever since; and I most sincerely beg your pardon. The humiliation is mine entirely." "But where in the world," demanded he, a new thought striking him, "did you get the thing? You know I threw it on the table." "Miss Carstair gave it to Mr. Stanford, and I got it from him." Maurice came a step nearer. "Why?" he asked, his voice deepening. "I--I didn't like to have him keep it," Bee murmured, with downcast face and lower tone. "Why?" he repeated, so much in earnest that his voice was almost threatening. She was for a moment more confused than ever, but rallying she held out the mask. "Oh, that I might tease you with it again!" she laughed. He took the absurd trinket in his hand. "It is pretty badly dilapidated," he observed. "Yes," she said demurely. "I crushed it in the carriage on the way home from the ball. I--I crumpled it up in my hand." "Why?" "You keep saying 'why' over and over to me, Mr. Wynne, as if I were on the witness-stand." "Why?" he persisted. He had forgotten all the doubts which had beset and hindered him, the scruples he had had about wooing, and the fears that she did not love him. He was conscious only that she was there before him and that he loved her; that her downcast looks seemed to encourage him, so that it was impossible to rest until he knew what was really in her mind. The unspoken message which he had somehow intangibly received from her made him forget everything else. He loved her; he loved her, and a wild hope was beating in his heart and seething in his brain. He could not turn back now; he must know. He saw her grow paler as he looked at her, standing so close that his face was bent down almost over her bent head. He felt that her secret, nay, the crown of life itself, was within his grasp if he did not fail now. "Why?" he asked still again, hardly conscious that he said it, and yet determined that he would win an answer at whatever cost. She raised her face slowly, shyly; her eyes were shining. "Because," she said, hardly above a whisper, "I was determined to convince myself that I hated you. But then"-- Her words faltered, yet he still did not dare to give way to the warm tide which he felt swelling up from his heart. His voice softened almost to the tone of hers. "But then?" The crimson stained her beautiful face, and faded. "I think I--I kissed it," she murmured, so low that the words were mere phantoms of speech. He tried to answer, but the words choked in his throat. He sprang forward, and gathered her into his arms. It is an art which even deacons may know by nature. When the pair came in to luncheon an hour later, Mrs. Wilson looked up at them, and then without question turned to a servant. "You may tell Patrick that we shan't need the carriage for the station," that sagacious woman said coolly.