that, craning to get the effect from every angle-the bouffance of
the skirt, the rosebuds wreathing the sides, the butterfly sash in
the back. Adjured by Miss Martin to stand still, she stood vibrantly
poised like a lily-stem waiting the breath of the wind; bade to
"lift up your arms," she obeyed and visioned winged fairies alert
for flight. Even when Miss Martin, carried away by her zeal in
fitting, stuck a pin through the pink tissue clear into the warmer,
softer pink beneath, Missy scarcely felt the prick.

But, at the midday dinner-table, that sympathetic uneasiness
returned. Father, home from the office, was full of indignation over
something "disgraceful" he had heard down town. Though the
conversation was held tantalizingly above Missy's full
comprehension, she could gather that the "disgrace" centred in the
bachelor dinner which Mr. Hackett had given at the Commercial House
the night before. Father evidently held no high opinion of the
introduction of "rotten Cleveland performances" nor of the man who
had introduced them.

"What 'rotten Cleveland performances'?" asked Missy with lively
curiosity.

"Oh, just those late, indigestible suppers," cut in mother quickly.
"Rich food at that hour just kills your stomach. Here, don't you
want another strawberry tart, Missy?"

Missy didn't; but she affected a desire for it, and then a keen
interest in its consumption. By this artifice, she hoped she might
efface herself as a hindrance to continuation of the absorbing talk.
But it is a trick of grown-ups to stop dead at the most thrilling