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."
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."