“A matter of taste,” he said, gravely. “A matter of taste, Miss Cora Dean.”
“Not one,” she said, giving him her hand in response to his own held out.
“I don’t know,” he said, looking very keenly in her eyes, “anger—love—jealousy.”
She snatched her hand away.
“Don’t fool!” she cried angrily. “I? Jealous?”
“Yes, you—jealous,” he said; and then as she hurried up the stairs, “and there would be another emotion to trouble you, Cora Dean, if you knew all that I know now. Ah, Dick! Ready?”
“Yes. Who was that, here?”
“Your fair enslaver—Cora Dean!”
Richard looked up at him keenly and laughed as they left the house, ignorant of the fact that Cora was watching them intently, and Mrs Dean was keeping up a running fire of comment on what she called her “gal’s foolery.”
Mellersh led the way at a good brisk pace along the parade, and they had not gone far before they became aware of the tall figure of the Master of the Ceremonies showing himself, as was his wont, king of the place apparently, and bowing and acknowledging bows.