That evening at the supper-table Missy voiced her desire. There were
just the four of them at the table--father, mother, Aunt Nettie and
herself. Missy sat silent, listening to the talk of the grownups;
but their voices floated to her as detached, far-off sounds, because
she was engrossed in looking at a mental picture; a red-haired,
laughing, admiring-eyed boy walking along beside a girl in white fox
furs--and the girl was not Genevieve Hicks. The delights of the
vision must have reflected in her face because finally her father
said:

"Well, Missy, what's all the smiling about?"

Missy blushed as if she'd been caught in mischief; but she answered,
wistfully rather than hopefully:

"I was just thinking how nice it would be if I had some white fox
furs."

"For heaven's sake!" commented mother. "When you've already got a
new set not two months old!"

Missy didn't reply to that; she didn't want to seem unappreciative.
It was true she had a new set, warm and serviceable, but--well, a
short-haired, dark-brown collarette hasn't the allure of a fluffy,
snow-white boa.

Mother was going on: "That ought to do you two winters at least--if
not three."