“Who is he, anyway?” he exploded further.
Missy's lips were twitching inexplicably; she feared to essay speech, but it was mother who answered.
“He's that red-headed boy who clerks in Pieker's grocery.”
“Arthur's a nice boy,” Missy then attempted courageously. “I don't think he ought to be blamed just because he's poor and—”
Her defence ended ignominiously in a choking sound. She wasn't one who cried easily and this unexpected outburst amazed herself; she could not, to have saved her life, have told why she cried.
Her father reached over and patted her hand.
“I'm not blaming him because he's poor, daughter. It's just that I don't want you to start thinking about the boys for a long while yet. Not about Arthur or any other boy. You're just a little girl.”
Missy knew very well that she was not “just a little girl,” but she knew, too, that parents nourish many absurd ideas. And though father was now absurd, she couldn't help feeling tender toward him when he called her “daughter” in that gentle tone. So, sighing a secret little sigh, she smiled back at him a misty smile which he took for comprehension and a promise. The subject of white fox furs seemed closed; Missy was reluctant to re-open it because, in some intangible way, it seemed bound up with the rather awkward subject of Arthur.
After supper father conversed with her about a piece she was reading in the Sunday Supplement, and seemed anxious to make her feel happy and contented. So softened was he that, when Tess telephoned and invited Missy to accompany the O'Neill family to the Methodist church that evening, he lent permission to the unusual excursion.
The unusualness of it—the Merriams performed their Sabbath devotions at 11 A.M.—served to give Missy a greater thrill than usually attends going to church. Besides, since the Merriams were Presbyterians, going to the Methodist church held a certain novelty—savouring of entertainment—and diversion from the same old congregation, the same old church choir, and the same old preacher. In literal truth, also, the new Methodist preacher was not old; he was quite young. Missy had already heard reports of him. Some of the Methodist girls declared that though ugly he was perfectly fascinating; and grandpa and grandma Merriam, who were Methodists (as had been her own father before he married mother, a Presbyterian), granted that he was human as well as inspired.