“This is my daughter.”
Not able to lift her eyes, Missy held out her hand; she observed that Mr. Dobson's was long and slender but had hair on the back of it—he ought to do something about that; but even as she thought this, the hand was enclosing hers in a clasp beautifully warm and strong; and a voice, wonderfully deep and pleasant and vibrant, was heard saying:
“Your daughter?—you're a man to be envied, sir.”
Then Missy forced her eyes upward; Mr. Dobson's were waiting to meet them squarely—bright dark eyes with a laugh in the back of them. And, then, the queerest thing happened. As he looked at her, that half-veiled laugh in his eyes seemed to take on a special quality, something personal and intimate and kindred—as if saying: “You and I understand, don't we?”
Missy's heart gave a swift, tumultuous dive and flight.
Then he let go her hand, and patiently turned his eyes to the next comer; but not with the same expression—Missy was sure of that. She walked on after her father in a kind of daze. The whole thing had taken scarcely a second; but, oh! what can be encompassed in a second!
Missy was very silent during the homeward journey; she intensely wanted to be silent. Once father said:
“Well, the man's certainly magnetic—but he seems a decent kind of fellow. I suppose a lot has been exaggerated.” He chuckled. “But I'll bet some of the Cherryvale ladies are a little disappointed.”
“Oh, that!” Missy felt a hot flame of indignation flare up inside her. “He wouldn't act that way! anybody could tell. I think it's a crime to talk so about him!”
Father gave another chuckle, very low; but Missy was too engrossed with her resentment and with other vague, jumbled emotions to notice it.