"I am called, you see," Mrs. Wilson said gayly. "Now I must go to penance and confession."
"Surely you will need so little time for confession," one of the men said, "that there's no necessity of going so early."
"You must have been more wicked this winter than I ever suspected, Elsie," put in the even voice of Mrs. Staggchase. "Or is it that you only mean to be?"
Maurice turned quickly, and found that his cousin was sitting behind the table near which he stood. In front of her were heaps of trinkets of all sorts of fantastic devices.
"Good evening, Cousin Maurice," she greeted him. "Are you dancing? What sort of a favor ought I to give you?"
"Mrs. Wilson's wickedness," Stanford answered Mrs. Staggchase, "is of the sort so original that I'm sure the recording angel must always be too surprised to put it down."
"What a premium you put on originality!" responded Mrs. 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."