“Only a look and a voice—but who can comprehend the—the—the unfathomable influence of a look? It may come to a soul—may come to a soul—”
Bother! How did that go?
Missy shut her eyes and tried to resummon the vision, to rehear those rhythmic words so fraught with wisdom. But all she saw was a sort of heterogeneous mass of whirling colours, and her thoughts, too, seemed to be just a confused and meaningless jumble. Only her FEELING seemed to remain. She could hardly bear it; why is it that you can feel with that intolerably fecund kind of ache while THOUGHTS refuse to come?
She finally gave it up, and rose and dressed. It was one of those mornings when clothes seem possessed of some demon so that they refuse to go on right. At breakfast she was unwontedly cross, and “talked back” to Aunt Nettie so that mother made her apologize. At that moment she hated Aunt Nettie, and even almost disliked mother. Then she discovered that Nicky, her little brother, had mischievously hidden her strap of books and, all of a sudden, she did an unheard-of thing: she slapped him! Nicky was so astonished he didn't cry; he didn't even run and tell mother, but Missy, seeing that hurt, bewildered look on his face, felt greater remorse than any punishment could have evoked. She loved Nicky dearly; how could she have done such a thing? But she remembered having read that Poe and Byron and other geniuses often got irritable when in creative mood. Perhaps that was it. The reflection brought a certain consolation.
But, at school, things kept on going wrong. In the Geometry class she was assigned the very “proposition” she'd been praying to elude; and, then, she was warned by the teacher—and not too privately—that if she wasn't careful she'd fail to pass; and that, of course, would mean she couldn't graduate. At the last minute to fail!—after Miss Simpson had started making her dress, and the invitations already sent to the relatives, and all!
And finally, just before she started home, Professor Sutton, the principal, had to call her into his office for a report on her thesis. The manuscript had to be handed in for approval, and was already past due. Professor Sutton was very stern with her; he said some kind of an outline, anyway, had to be in by the end of the week. Of course, being a grown-up and a teacher besides, he believed everything should be done on time, and it would be useless to try to explain to him even if one could.
Raymond Bonner was waiting to walk home with her. Raymond often walked home with her and Missy was usually pleased with his devotion; he was the handsomest and most popular boy in the class. But, to-day, even Raymond jarred on her. He kept talking, talking, and it was difficult for her preoccupied mind to find the right answer in the right place. He was talking about the celebrity who was to give the “Lyceum Course” lecture that evening. The lecturer's name was Dobson. Oh uninspiring name!—Ridgeley Holman Dobson. He was a celebrity because he'd done something-or-other heroic in the Spanish war. Missy didn't know just what it was, not being particularly interested in newspapers and current events, and remote things that didn't matter. But Raymond evidently knew something about Dobson aside from his being just prominent.
“I only hope he kisses old Miss Lightner!” he said, chortling.
“Kisses her?” repeated Missy, roused from her reveries. Why on earth should a lecturer kiss anybody, above all Miss Lightner, who was an old maid and not attractive despite local gossip about her being “man-crazy”? “Why would he kiss Miss Lightner?”
Raymond looked at her in astonishment.