When young Doc politely enquired whether she could steal enough time from her errand to turn about for a run up “The Boulevard,” Missy acquiesced. She regretted she hadn't worn her shirred mull hat. But she decided not to worry about that. After all, her appearance, at the present moment, didn't so much matter. What did matter was the way she was going to look next Wednesday—and she excitedly began telling young Doc about her coming magnificence, “It's silk organdie,” she said in a reverent tone, “and has garlands of rosebuds.” She went on and told him of the big leghorn hat to be filled with flowers, of the Pink Stockings—best of all, silk!—waiting, in tissue-paper, in the high-boy drawer.
“Oh, I can hardly wait!” she concluded rapturously.
Young Doc, guiding the car around the street-sprinkling wagon, did not answer. Beyond the wagon, Mr. Hackett, whom the Ford had overtaken, was swinging along. Missy turned to young Doc with a slight grimace.
“'The poor craven bridegroom said never a word,'” she quoted.
Young Doc permitted himself to smile—not too much. “Why don't you like him, Missy?”
Missy shook her head, without other reply. It would have been difficult for her to express why she didn't like stylish Mr. Hackett.
“I wish,” she said suddenly, “that you were going to be the bridegroom, Doc.”
He smiled a wry smile at her. “Well, to tell the truth, I wish so, too, Missy.”
“Well, she'll be coming back to visit us often, and maybe you can take us out riding again.”
“Maybe—but after getting used to big imported cars, I'm afraid one doesn't care much for a Ford.”