Mrs. Stoker had a new green cottage with nine Corinthian pillars (capitals enormously ornate) along her front porch. Within, electric lights, white-pine woodwork, brilliant floral tributes of Axminster carpets, and bird’s-eye maple furniture combined to produce an effect luxurious, irrefutable.
“Oh, yes,” natty Stoker was saying to the men, “I gave him three thousand for his ten acres. Wheelock, run over to the city with me to-morrow and look at the Pasadena Villa Tract. I’ve a mind to pick up a bunch of those lots.”
“O Mrs. Hummel!” came Mrs. Stoker’s winning voice, and everybody listened. There was the purple-draped hostess flowing toward the preacher’s wife. “I was dreadfully afraid you wouldn’t come! I’m so” (powerful kiss) “glad you did! And dear Mr. Hummel?”
“To-night he works on his sermon,” said Mrs. Hummel, beaming about on the faces of the alert and delightfully surprised company. “I persuaded him to run in for me later; for I just came to look on. Of course,” here she turned the sweet lips toward Mrs. Stoker, “you couldn’t expect us to play.”
Mrs. Stoker put new fuel in her smile to Mrs. Hummel; and Mrs. Hummel did likewise further fire up her smile to Mrs. Stoker; and the edified company sat down.
The games went on with a vim that made it seem some hungry gambling spirit, dormant in the town, rose up and reveled. Mrs. Stoker had risked it all on her belief in the psychological moment—and won! The town was ready for sin.
“And that little statue is the prize,” now said Mrs. Stoker, moving about. “Mrs. Hummel, would you hold it up?”
All eyes came round in sneaking way toward Mrs. Hummel, who grew pallid. There, on the mantel, near her hand as she stood to watch, was the statuette—a nude Greek maid.
“Would you mind holding it up? They can’t see,” repeated Mrs. Stoker, louder, fires in her eyes.