Part 45 (1/2)

”I'd hate to have to take one of them to a dance,” said Mr. Briggs.

Missy turned thoughtful; there were sides to ”achievement” she hadn't taken into consideration. ”Speaking of dances,” Mr. Briggs was continuing, ”my aunt's going to give Louise and me a party before we go--maybe Sat.u.r.day night.”

A party! Missy felt a thrill that wasn't professional.

Mr. Briggs leaned closer, across the little table. ”If you're not already booked up,” he said, ”may I call for you Sat.u.r.day night?”

Missy was still disturbed by some of the things Mr. Briggs had said. But it was certainly pleasant to have a visiting young man--a young man who lived in Keokuk and travelled in California and attended college in the East--choose her for his partner at his own party.

Later that night at the Beacon office, after she had turned in her report of the Presbyterian ladies' fete, she lingered at her desk. She was in the throes of artistic production:

”Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk is visiting Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner.”

That was too bald; not rich enough. She tried again:

”Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk, Iowa, is visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner on Maple Avenue.”

Even that didn't lift itself up enough out of the ordinary. Missy puckered her brows; a moist lock fell down and straggled across her forehead. With interlineations, she enlarged:

”Mr. Archibald Briggs, who has been travelling in California and the Far West, on his way to his home in Keokuk, Iowa, is visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner in Maple Avenue.”

An anxious scrutiny; and then ”on his way” was amended to ”en route.”

That would almost do. And then, as she regarded the finished item, a curious feeling crept over her: a sort of reluctance, distaste for having it printed--printing it herself, as it were. That seemed, somehow, too--too public. And then, as she sat in a maze of strange emotions, a sudden thought came to the rescue:

His sister--Louise! She'd forgotten to include Louise! How terrible if she'd left out his sister! And adding the second name would remove the personal note. She quickly interlined again, and the item stood complete:

”Mr. Archibald Briggs and Miss Louise Briggs, who have been travelling in California and the Far West, en route to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, are visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner in Maple Avenue.”

As her father entered the office to take her home, Missy gave a deep sigh, a sigh of mingled satisfaction and exhaustion such as seals a difficult task well done.

Late as it was when she reached home, Missy lingered long before her mirror. With the aid of a hand-gla.s.s she critically studied her pink organdie from every angle. She wished she had a new dress; a delicate wispy affair of cream net--the colour of moonlight--would be lovely and aristocratic-looking. And with some subtle but distinguished colour combination, like dull blue and lilac, for the girdle. That would be heavenly. But one can't have a new dress for every party. Missy sighed, and tilted back the dresser mirror so as to catch the swing of skirt about her shoe-tops. She wished the skirt was long and trailing; there was a cl.u.s.ter of tucks above the hem--maybe mother would allow her to let one out; she'd ask to-morrow.

Then she tilted the mirror back to its normal position; maybe mother would allow her to turn in the neck just a wee bit lower--like this.

That glimpse of throat would be pretty, especially with some kind of necklace. She got out her string of coral. No. The jagged shape of coral was effective and the colour was effective, but it didn't ”go” with pale pink. She held up her string of pearl beads. That was better. But ah! if only she had some long pearl pendants, to dangle down from each ear; she knew just how to arrange her hair--something like Lady Sylvia Southwoode's--so as to set them off.

She was engaged in parting her hair in the centre and rolling it back in simple but aristocratic-looking ”puffs” on either side--she did look the least bit like Lady Sylvia!--when she heard her mother's voice calling:

”Missy! haven't you gone to bed yet?”

”No, mother,” she answered meekly, laying down the brush very quietly.

”What on earth are you doing?”

”Nothing--I'm going to bed right now,” she answered, more meekly yet.

”You'd better,” came the unseen voice. ”You've got to get up early if you're going to the picnic.”

The picnic--oh, bother! Missy had forgotten the picnic. If it had been a picnic of her own ”crowd” she would not have forgotten it, but she was attending this function because of duty instead of pleasure.

And it isn't especially interesting to tag along with a lot of children and their Sunday-school teachers.