As Missy smiled back at him she resolved, despite everything, to keep father's socks in better order than ever before.
During supper the talk kept coming back to the theme of her Work, but in a friendly, unscoffing way so that Missy knew her parents were really pleased. Mother mentioned Mrs. Brooks's “bridge” Thursday afternoon—that might make a good write-up. And father said he'd get her a leather-bound notebook next day. And when, after supper, instead of joining them on the porch, she brought tablet and pencil and a pile of books and placed them on the dining-table, there were no embarrassing comments, and she was left alone with her thrills and puzzlements.
Among the books were Stevenson's “Some Technical Considerations of Style,” George Eliot's “Romola” and Carlyle's “Sartor Resartus”; the latter two being of the kind that especially lifted you to a mood of aching to express things beautifully. Missy liked books that lifted you up. She loved the long-drawn introspections of George Eliot and Augusta J. Evans; the tender whimsy of Barrie as she'd met him through “Margaret Ogilvie” and “Sentimental Tommy”; the fascinating mysteries of Marie Corelli; the colourful appeal of “To Have and To Hold” and the other “historical romances” which were having a vogue in that era; and Kipling's India!—that was almost best of all. She had outgrown most of her earlier loves—Miss Alcott whom she'd once known intimately, and “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and “The Birds' Christmas Carol” had survived, too, her brief illicit passion for the exotic product of “The Duchess.” And she didn't respond keenly to many of the “best sellers” which were then in their spectacular, flamboyantly advertised heyday; somehow they failed to stimulate the mind, stir the imagination, excite the emotions—didn't lift you up. Yet she could find plenty of books in the Library which satisfied.
Now she sat, reading the introspections of “Romola” till she felt her own soul stretching out—up and beyond the gas table-lamp glowing there in such lovely serenity through its gold-glass shade; felt it aching to express something, she knew not what.
Some day, perhaps, after she had written intellectual essays about Politics and such things, she might write about Life. About Life itself! And the Cosmos!
Her chin sank to rest upon her palm. How beautiful were those pink roses in their leaf-green bowl—like a soft piece of music or a gently flowing poem. Maybe Mrs. Brooks would have floral decorations at her bridge-party. She hoped so—then she could write a really satisfying kind of paragraph—flowers were always so inspiring. Those pink petals were just about to fall. Yet, somehow, that made them seem all the lovelier. She could almost write a poem about that idea! Would Mr. Martin mind if, now and then, she worked in a little verse or two? It would make Society reporting more interesting. For, she had to admit, Society Life in Cherryvale wasn't thrilling. Just lawn-festivals and club meetings and picnics at the Waterworks and occasional afternoon card-parties where the older women wore their Sunday silks and exchanged recipes and household gossip. If only there was something interesting—just a little dash of “atmosphere.” If only they drank afternoon tea, or talked about Higher Things, or smoked cigarettes, or wore long ear-rings! But, perhaps, some day—in New York...
Missy's head drooped; she felt deliciously drowsy. Into the silence of her dreams a cheerful voice intruded:
“Missy, dear, it's after ten o'clock and you're nodding! Oughtn't you go up to bed?”
“All right, mother.” Obediently she took her dreams upstairs with her, and into her little white bed.
Thursday afternoon, all shyness and importance strangely compounded, Missy carried a note-book to Mrs. Brooks's card-party. It was agreeable to hear Mrs. Brooks effusively explain: “Missy's working on the Beacon now, you know”; and to feel two dozen pairs of eyes upon her as she sat writing down the list of guests; and to be specially led out to view the refreshment-table. There was a profusion of flowers, but as Mrs. Brooks didn't have much “taste” Missy didn't catch the lilt of inspiration she had hoped for.