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Updated: June 21, 2025
Then she became suddenly aware of her attitude and with quick feminine cunning endeavored to transfer her admiration to some beautiful horses cantering by, exclaiming in Italian, that the officers might surely understand she was thinking only of the fine animals: "O, what wonderful horses!" The foreign pronunciation, Eric's amusement, Mae's confusion, were not lost upon the men.
But alas! she never tells her beads, or prays a prayer, and sorry things are said of her that God gave her up because she left Him. But the children all love her, and she loves them. Edith and Mae had a quarrel one morning. Mae's tongue was sharp, but although she breezed quickly, she calmed again very soon.
As Edith and her mother quietly read, and ate grapes, and lolled in a delightfully feminine way, voices were heard, Mae's and Norman's. They were in the middle of a conversation. "Yes," Mae was saying, "you do away with individuality altogether nowadays, with your dreadful classifications. It is all the same from daffodils up to women." "How do we classify women, pray?"
Mann still followed them; Norman on the other side of the street, the Italian in a slyer, less conspicuous manner, by taking side streets, or the next parallel pavement, and appearing only at every corner in the distance. He appeared, however, close at hand, as Mae and Eric turned into their lodgings. His eyes met Mae's.
Once, when Desdemona cried out thrillingly, "Othello, il mio marito," Mae looked at Norman involuntarily and caught a half flash of his eye, but he turned back quickly to his companion and Mae's glance wandered on to Bero and rested there as the wild voice cried out again, "il mio marito, il mio marito." So the evening slid on.
The veiled lady's face was stranger, more mysterious, to an artistic or an imaginative mind; but youth, and intense life, and endless variety usually carry the day with a man's captious heart, and so Bero called Mae "My little Queen of the Carnival." Mae's good times were greatly dimmed after this by the thought that she was watched.
At which the bridegroom shook his head very decidedly, and kissed Mae's hand and bowed himself out.
"Of course, Mae's new; do you think she will make good, Captain?" "There's no doubt about it," replied Miss Phillips positively; "making the sorority last year was bad for Mae VanHorn, but losing out on the Scout troop was a good thing. All of her best friends are Scouts, and she certainly has buckled down to work well.
But Mae turned her face from him slightly; the moon stole softly behind the flimsiest little cloud that any one could have seen through, and he paused, silly fellow. These slight withdrawals, that should have urged him on, deceived him. He stopped, and then he remembered Mae's past doings, her recklessness, her waywardness.
Still he wasn't so bad yet, with Beryl Mae's scarf over his arm, and talking of the unparalleled beauties of Price's Addition to Red Gap, which he said he wouldn't trade even for the whole of Alaska if it was offered to him to-morrow not that Ben Sutton wasn't the whitest soul God ever made and he'd like to hear some one say different and so on.
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