That night she had difficulty in getting to sleep. And, for the first time in weeks, visions of Commencement failed to waft her off to dreams. She was hearing over and over, in a kind of lullaby, a deep, melodious voice: “Your daughter?—you're a man to be envied, sir!”—was seeing a pair of dark bright eyes, smiling into her own with a beam of kinship ineffable.
Next day, at school, she must listen to an aftermath of gossipy surmise anent the disappointing osculatory hero. At last she could stand it no longer.
“I think it's horrid to talk that way! Anybody can see he's not that kind of man!”
Raymond Bonner stared.
“Why, I thought you said he was disgusting!”
But Missy, giving him a withering look, turned and walked away, leaving him to ponder the baffling contrarieties of the feminine sex.
A new form of listlessness now took hold of Missy. That afternoon she didn't want to study, didn't want to go over to Kitty Allen's when her friend telephoned, didn't even want to work on hats; this last was a curious turn, indeed, and to a wise observer might have been significant. She had only a desire to be alone, and was grateful for the excuse her thesis provided her; though it must be admitted precious little was inscribed, that bright May afternoon, on the patient tablet which kept Missy company in the summerhouse.
At supper, while the talk pivoted inevitably round the departed Dobson, she sat immersed in preoccupation so deep as to be conspicuous even in Missy. Aunt Nettie, smiling, once started to make a comment but, unseen by his dreaming daughter, was silenced by Mr. Merriam. And immediately after the meal she'd eaten without seeing, the faithful tablet again in hand, Missy wandered back to the summer-house.
It was simply heavenly out there now. The whole western sky clear to the zenith was laid over with a solid colour of opaque saffron rose; and, almost halfway up and a little to the left, in exactly the right place, of deepest turquoise blue, rested one mountain of cloud; it was the shape of Fujiyama, the sacred mount of Japan, which was pictured in Aunt Isabel's book of Japanese prints. Missy wished she might see Japan—Mr. Dobson had probably been there—lecturers usually were great travellers. He'd probably been everywhere—led a thrilling sort of life—the sort of life that makes one interesting. Oh, if only she could talk to him—just once. She sighed. Why didn't interesting people like that ever come to Cherryvale to live? Everybody in Cherryvale was so—so commonplace. Like Bill Cummings, the red-haired bank teller, who thought a trip to St. Louis an adventure to talk about for months! Or like old Mr. Siddons, or Professor Sutton, or the clerks in Mr. Bonner's store. In Cherryvale there was only this settled, humdrum kind of people. Of course there were the boys; Raymond was nice—but you can't expect mere boys to be interesting. She recalled that smiling, subtly intimate glance from Mr. Dobson's eyes. Oh, if he would stay in Cherryvale just a week! If only he'd come back just once! If only—
“Missy! The dew's falling! You'll catch your death of cold! Come in the house at once!”