She drew from the folds of her handkerchief the little grotesque mask which she had pinned upon her lover's cassock at the Mardi Gras ball. Maurice flushed hotly at the sight.
"You are determined, Miss Morison, to spare me no humiliation in your power."
"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.