"With a man," Mrs. Staggchase added, her eyes shining on her cousin.
Wynne stabbed her with a glance of indignation.
"No, with a priest," corrected Mrs. Wilson, adjusting her domino about her face.
"Elsie, how devilishly fond you are of making a fool of yourself," Dr.
Wilson observed jovially. "Well, good-night."
Mrs. Wilson swept him a profound courtesy, with her hands crossed on her bosom.
"My lord and master, good-night. Ladies, remember that it will be Lent in ten minutes."
She took Wynne's arm, and together the black-robed figures went down the length of the room. The music had for the moment stopped, and it seemed to Maurice as if his presence had brought a chill to the whole gay scene. He was inwardly raging, angry to have been used by Mrs. Wilson as an actor in her outrageous comedy, furious with Berenice for her part in the play, full of rage against the men who stood around grinning and laughing at the whole performance. Most of all, he assured himself, he was righteously indignant at the trifling with sacred things. He looked neither to the left nor to the right, but with Mrs. Wilson sweeping along by his side he strode toward the door.
"He looks as if he belonged to the church militant," he heard one of the men say as he passed out.
"Even the church militant is nothing against a woman," another replied, catching the eye of Mrs. Wilson, and laughing.
In the vestibule stood a footman bearing Maurice's cloak, and a maid with fur over-shoes and an ermine-lined wrap for Mrs. Wilson. Maurice said not a word except to reply in monosyllables to the questions of his companion, and almost in silence they drove to the Church of the Nativity.