As the minutes went by, her strain of suspense gradually lessened. Rev. MacGill was chatting away easily—about the delicious chicken-stuffing and quince jelly, and the election, and the repairs on the church steeple, and things like that. Now and then he caught Missy's eye, but his expression for her was exactly the same as for the others—no one could suspect there was any secret between them. He WAS a good sport!
Once a shadow passed outside the window. Gypsy! Missy saw that he saw, and, as his glance came back to rest upon herself, for a second her heart surged. But something in his eyes—she couldn't define exactly what it was save that it was neither censorious nor quizzical—subtly gave her reassurance. It was as if he had told her in so many words that everything was all right, for her not to worry the least little bit. All of a sudden she felt blissfully at peace. She smiled at him for no reason at all, and he smiled back—a nice, not at all amused kind of smile. Oh, he was a perfect brick! And what glorious eyes he had! And that fascinating habit of flinging his hair back with a quick toss of the head. How gracefully he used his hands. And what lovely, distinguished table manners—she must practice that trick of lifting your napkin, delicately and swiftly, so as to barely touch your lips. She ate her own food in a kind of trance, unaware of what she was eating; yet it was like eating supper in heaven.
And then, at the very end, something terrible happened. Marguerite had brought in the pie'ce de re'sistance, the climactic dish toward which mother had built the whole meal—the deep-dish peach pie, sugar-coated, fragrant and savory—and placed it on the serving-table near the open window. There was a bit, of wire loose at the lower end of the screen, and, in the one second Marguerite's back was turned—just one second, but just long enough—Missy saw a velvety nose fumble with the loose wire, saw a sleek neck wedge itself through the crevice, and a long red tongue lap approvingly over the sugar-coated crust.
Missy gasped audibly. Mother followed her eyes, turned, saw, jumped up—but it was too late. Mrs. Merriam viciously struck at Gypsy's muzzle and pushed the encroaching head back through the aperture.
“Get away from here!” she cried angrily. “You little beast!”
“I think the pony shows remarkably good taste,” commented Rev. MacGill, trying to pass the calamity off as a joke. But his hostess wasn't capable of an answering smile; she gazed despairingly, tragically, at the desecrated confection.
“I took such pains with it,” she almost wailed. “It was a deep-dish peach pie—I made it specially for Mr. MacGill.”
“Well, I'm not particularly fond of peach pie, anyway,” said the minister, meaning to be soothing.
“Oh, but I know you ARE! Mrs. Allen said that at her house you took two helpings-that you said it was your favourite dessert.”
The minister coughed a little cough—he was caught in a somewhat delicate situation; then, always tactful, replied: “Perhaps I did say that—her peach pie was very good. But I'm equally fond of all sweets—I have a sweet tooth.”