“Polly.”
They became silent—a long silence. Missy stood petrified behind the door; her breathing ceased but her heart beat quickly. Here was Romance—not the made-up kind of Romance you surreptitiously read in mother's magazines, but real Romance! And she—Missy—knew them both! And they were just the other side of the door!
Too thrilled to reflect upon the nature of her deed, scarcely conscious of herself as a being at all, Missy craned her neck and peered around the door. They were sitting close together on the divan. Pete's arm was about Polly Currier's shoulder. And he was kissing her! Curious, that! Hadn't she just heard Polly tell him that he couldn't?... Oh, beautiful!
She started noiselessly to withdraw, but her foot struck the conch shell which served as a door-stop. At the noise two startled pairs of eyes were upon her immediately; and Pete, leaping up, advanced upon her with a fierce whisper:
“You little spy-eye!—What're you up to? You little spy-eye!”
A swift wave of shame engulfed Missy.
“Oh, I'm sorry!” she cried in a stricken voice. “I didn't mean to, Pete—I—”
He interrupted her, still in that fierce whisper:
“Stop yelling, can't you! No, I suppose you 'didn't mean to'—Right behind the door!” His eyes withered her.
“Truly, I didn't, Pete.” Her own voice, now, had sunk to a whisper. “Cross my heart I didn't!”