Then she had to mind the baby for a while, and she took him out on the side lawn and pretended to play croquet with him. The baby wasn't quite three, and it was delicious to see him, with mallet and ball before a wicket, trying to mimic the actions of his elders. Poppylinda, Missy's big black cat, wanted to play too, and succeeded in getting between the baby's legs and upsetting him. But the baby was under a charm; he only picked himself up and laughed. And Missy was sure that black Poppy also laughed.
That night at supper she didn't have much chance to talk to father about the big event, for he had brought an old friend home to supper. Missy was rather left out of the conversation. She felt glad for that; it is hard to talk to old people; it is hard to express to them the thoughts and feelings that possess you. Besides, to-night she didn't want to talk to anyone, nor to listen. She only wanted to sit immersed in that soft, warm, fluttering deliciousness.
Just as the meal was over the hall telephone rang and, at a sign from mother, she excused herself to answer it. From outside the door she heard father's friend say: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he be speaking of her?
The evening, as the afternoon had been, was divine. When Missy was getting ready for bed she leaned out of the window to look at the night, and the fabric of her soul seemed to stretch out and mingle with all that dark, luminous loveliness. It seemed that she herself was a part of the silver moon high up there, a part of the white, shining radiance which spread down and over leaves and grass everywhere. The strong, damp scent of the ramblers on the porch seemed to be her own fragrant breath, and the black shadows pointing out from the pine trees were her own blots of sadness—sadness vague and mysterious, with more of pleasure in it than pain.
She could hardly bear to leave this mysterious, fascinating night; to leave off thinking the big, vague thoughts the night always called forth; but she had to light the gas and set about the business of undressing.
But, first, she paused to gaze at herself in the looking-glass. For the millionth time she wished she were pretty like Kitty Allen. And Kitty would wear her pink dotted mull to the party. Missy sighed.
Then meditatively she unbraided her long, mouse-coloured braids; twisted them into tentative loops over her ears; earnestly studied the effect. No; her hair was too straight and heavy. She tried to imagine undulating waves across her forehead-if only mother would let her use crimpers! Perhaps she would! And then, perhaps, she wouldn't look so plain. She wished she were not so plain; the longing to be pretty made her fairly ache.
Then slowly the words of that man crept across her memory: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he have meant her? She stared at the eyes which stared back from the looking-glass till she had the odd sensation that they were something quite strange and Allen to her: big, dark, deep, and grave eyes, peering out from some unknown consciousness. And they were beautiful eyes!
Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door: “Missy, why in the world haven't you gone to bed?”
Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief.