"
If only they drank afternoon tea, or talked about Higher Things, or
smoked cigarettes, or wore long ear-rings! But, perhaps, some day--
in New York . . .
Missy's head drooped; she felt deliciously drowsy. Into the silence
of her dreams a cheerful voice intruded:
"Missy, dear, it's after ten o'clock and you're nodding! Oughtn't
you go up to bed?"
"All right, mother." Obediently she took her dreams upstairs with
her, and into her little white bed.
Thursday afternoon, all shyness and importance strangely compounded,
Missy carried a note-book to Mrs. Brooks's card-party. It was
agreeable to hear Mrs. Brooks effusively explain: "Missy's working
on the Beacon now, you know"; and to feel two dozen pairs of eyes
upon her as she sat writing down the list of guests; and to be
specially led out to view the refreshment-table. There was a
profusion of flowers, but as Mrs. Brooks didn't have much "taste"
Missy didn't catch the lilt of inspiration she had hoped for.
However, after she had worked her "write-up" over several times, she
prefixed a paragraph on the decorations which she hoped would atone
for the drab prosiness of the rest.
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