“No,” she answered quite seriously, “I haven't finished Marguerite's yet.”
“Yes,” cut in mother, in the tone of reproach so often heard these days, “she's been frittering away the whole afternoon. And not a glimmer for the thesis yet!”
At that Missy, without thinking, unwarily said:
“Oh, yes, I have, mother.”
“Oh,” said her mother interestedly. “What is it?”
Missy suddenly remembered and blushed—grown-ups seldom understand unless you're definite.
“Well,” she amended diffidently, “I've got the subject.”
“What is it?” persisted mother.
Everybody was looking at Missy. She poured the cream over her berries, took a mouthful; but they all kept looking at her, waiting.
“'Ships That Pass in the Night,'” she had to answer.