“Sure you feel all right?” she enquired solicitously.
“Oh, yes—fine!” said Missy.
She was glad, on the rather long walk to the Bonners', that Mr. Briggs was so easy to talk to—which meant that Mr. Briggs did most of the talking. Even at that it was hard to concentrate on his conversation sufficiently to make the right answers in the occasional lulls.
And things grew harder, much harder, during the first dance. The guests danced through the big double parlours and out the side door on to the big, deep porch. It was inspiringly beautiful out there on the porch: the sweet odour of honeysuckle and wistaria and “mock orange” all commingled; and the lights shining yellow out of the windows, and the paler, glistening light of the moon spreading its fairy whiteness everywhere. It was inspiringly beautiful; and the music was divine—Charley Kelley's orchestra was playing; and Mr. Briggs was a wonderful dancer. But Missy couldn't forget the oppressive heat, or the stabbing weights in her head, or, worse yet, that blackberry cobbler.
As Mr. Briggs was clapping for a second encore, she said tremulously:
“Will you excuse me a minute?—I must run upstairs—I forgot my handkerchief.”
“Let me get it for you,” offered Mr. Briggs gallantly.
“No! oh, no!” Her tone was excited and, almost frantically, she turned and ran into the house and up the stairs.
Up there, in the bedroom which was temporarily the “ladies' cloak-room, prostrate on the bed, Mrs. Bonner found her later. Missy protested she was now feeling better, though she thought she'd just lie quiet awhile. She insisted that Mrs. Bonner make no fuss and go back down to her guests. Mrs. Bonner, after bringing a damp towel and some smelling-salts, left her. But presently Missy heard the sound of tip-toeing steps, and lifted a corner of the towel from off her eyes. There stood Mr. Briggs.
“Say, this is too bad!” he commiserated. “How's the head?”