"I don't know what the present generation is coming to," put in Aunt
Nettie with what seemed to Missy entire irrelevance. Aunt Nettie was
a spinster, even older than Missy's mother, and her lack of
understanding and her tendency to criticize and to laugh was
especially dreaded by her niece.

"Nowadays girls still in knee-skirts expect to dress and act like
society belles!"

"I wasn't expecting the white fox furs," said Missy defensively. "I
was just thinking how nice it would be to have them." She was silent
a moment, then added: "I think if I had some white fox furs I'd be
the happiest person in the world."

"That doesn't strike me as such a large order for complete
happiness," observed father, smiling at her.

Missy smiled back at him. In another these words might have savoured
of irony, but Missy feared irony from her father less than from any
other old person.

Father was a big, silent man but he was always kind and particularly
lovable; and he "understood" better than most "old people."

"What is the special merit of these white fox furs?" he went on, and
something in the indulgent quality of his tone, something in the
expression of his eyes, made hope stir timidly to birth in her bosom
and rise to shine from her eyes.

But before she could answer, mother spoke. "I can tell you that.