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.”
“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.”