In the house, mother told her it was time to go to Miss Martin's to
try on the Pink Dress.
Down the street, she encountered Mr. Hackett, the rich bridegroom
come out of the East, a striking figure, on that quiet street, in
the natty white flannels suggesting Cleveland, Atlantic City, and
other foreign places.
"Well, if here isn't Sappho!" he greeted her gaily. Missy blushed.
Not for worlds had she suspected he was hearing her, that unlucky
morning in the grape-arbour, when she recited her latest Poem to
Miss Princess. Now she smiled perfunctorily, and started to pass
him.
But Mr. Hackett, swinging his stick, stood with his feet wide apart
and looked down at her.
"How's the priestess of song, this fine morning?" he persisted.
"All-right," stammered Missy.
He laughed, as if actually enjoying her confusion. Missy observed
that his eyes were red-rimmed, and his face a pasty white. She
wondered whether he was sick; but he jauntily waved his stick at her
and went on his way.
Missy, a trifle subdued, continued hers.
But oh, it is a wonderful world! You never know what any moment may
bring you.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78