Even at that disturbed moment, when she was hearing sacrilege aimed at her most cherished ideals—perilously swaying ideals, had she but realized it—Missy caught the pleasing significance of his last phrase, and blushed again. Still she tried to stand up for those imperilled ideals, forcing herself to ask:
“But surely you admire women who achieve—women like George Eliot and Frances Hodgson Burnett and all those?”
“I'd hate to have to take one of them to a dance,” said Mr. Briggs.
Missy turned thoughtful; there were sides to “achievement” she hadn't taken into consideration. “Speaking of dances,” Mr. Briggs was continuing, “my aunt's going to give Louise and me a party before we go—maybe Saturday night.”
A party! Missy felt a thrill that wasn't professional.
Mr. Briggs leaned closer, across the little table. “If you're not already booked up,” he said, “may I call for you Saturday night?”
Missy was still disturbed by some of the things Mr. Briggs had said. But it was certainly pleasant to have a visiting young man—a young man who lived in Keokuk and travelled in California and attended college in the East—choose her for his partner at his own party.
Later that night at the Beacon office, after she had turned in her report of the Presbyterian ladies' fete, she lingered at her desk. She was in the throes of artistic production:
“Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk is visiting Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner.”
That was too bald; not rich enough. She tried again: