conscious of herself as a being at all, Missy craned her neck and
peered around the door. They were sitting close together on the
divan. Pete's arm was about Polly Currier's shoulder. And he was
kissing her! Curious, that! Hadn't she just heard Polly tell him
that he couldn't?. . . Oh, beautiful!

She started noiselessly to withdraw, but her foot struck the conch
shell which served as a door-stop. At the noise two startled pairs
of eyes were upon her immediately; and Pete, leaping up, advanced
upon her with a fierce whisper:

"You little spy-eye!--What're you up to? You little spy-eye!"

A swift wave of shame engulfed Missy.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she cried in a stricken voice. "I didn't mean to,
Pete--I--"

He interrupted her, still in that fierce whisper:

"Stop yelling, can't you! No, I suppose you 'didn't mean to'--Right
behind the door!" His eyes withered her.

"Truly, I didn't, Pete." Her own voice, now, had sunk to a whisper.
"Cross my heart I didn't!"

But he still glared.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself--always sneaking round! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself!"