He smiled a wry smile at her. "Well, to tell the truth, I wish so,
too, Missy."

"Well, she'll be coming back to visit us often, and maybe you can
take us out riding again."

"Maybe--but after getting used to big imported cars, I'm afraid one
doesn't care much for a Ford."

There was a note of cynicism, of pain, which, because she didn't
know what it was, cut Missy to the heart. It is all very well, in
Romance and Poems, to meet with unhappy, discarded lovers--they
played an essential part in many of the best ballads in the
Anthology; but when that romantic role falls, in real life, on the
shoulders of a nice young Doc, the matter assumes a different
complexion. Missy's own ecstasy over the Wedding suddenly loomed
thoughtless, selfish, wicked. She longed timidly to reach over and
pat that lean brown hand resting on the steering-wheel. Two
sentences she formed in her mind, only to abandon them unspoken,
when, to her relief, the need for delicate diplomacy was temporarily
removed by the car's slowing to a stop before Miss Martin's gate.

Inside the little white cottage, however, in Miss Martin's sitting-
room--so queer and fascinating with its "forms," its samples and
"trimmings" pinned to the curtains, its alluring display of fashion
magazines and "charts," and its eternal litter of varicoloured
scraps over the floor--Missy's momentary dejection could but vanish.
Finally, when in Miss Martin's artfully tilted cheval glass, she
surveyed the pink vision which was herself, gone, for the time, was
everything of sadness in the world. She turned her head this way and