“You look flushed to me. And sort of heavy around the eyes—don't you think so, papa?”
“She does look sort of peaked,” affirmed Mr. Merriam.
“She's been dragging around all day,” went on the mother. Missy tried harder than ever to “perk up”—if they found out about the headache, like as not they'd put a taboo on the party—grown-ups were so unreasonable. Parties were good for headaches.
“I heard over at Mrs. Allen's this afternoon,” Aunt Nettie put in, “that there's measles in town. All the Smith children are down with it.” Missy recalled the oldest little Smith girl, with the fever, at the picnic, but said nothing.
“I wonder if Missy could have run into it anywhere,” said mother anxiously.
“Me?” ejaculated the Society Editor, disdainfully.
“Children have measles!”
“Children! Listen to her!” jeered Aunt Nettie with delight.
“I've had the measles,” Missy went on. “And anyway I feel fine!” So saying, she set to to make herself eat the last mouthful of the blackberry cobbler she didn't want.
It was hard to concentrate on her toilette with the fastidious care she would have liked. Her arms were so heavy she could scarcely lift them to her head, and her head itself seemed to have jagged weights rolling inside at her slightest movement. She didn't feel up to experimenting with the new coiffure d'la Lady Sylvia Southwoode; even the exertion of putting up her hair the usual way made her uncomfortably conscious of the blackberry cobbler. She wasn't yet dressed when Mr. Briggs called for her. Mother came in to help.