There was the merest flip of black on the lacy bosom of Marcia's nightgown, and Hattie leaned down to fleck it. No. It was a pin—a small black-enameled pin edged in pearls. Automatically Hattie knew.
"Pi Phi!"
"Marcia," cried Hattie, and shook her a little. She hated so to waken her. Always had. Especially for school on rainy days. Sometimes didn't. Couldn't. Marcia came up out of sleep so reluctantly. A little dazed. A little secretive. As if a white bull in a dream had galloped off with her like Persephone's.
Only Hattie did not know of Persephone. She only knew that Marcia slept beautifully and almost breathlessly. Sweet and low. It seemed silly, sleeping beautifully. But just the same, Marcia did.
Then Hattie, not faltering, mind you, waited. It was better that Marcia should know. Now, too, while her heart was so high.
Sometimes it took as many as three kisses to awaken Marcia. Hattie bent for the first one, a sound one on the tip of her lip.
"Marcia!" she cried. "Marcy, wake up!" and drew back.
Something had happened! Darkly. A smudge the size of a quarter and the color of Hattie's guaranteed-not-to-fade cheek, lay incredibly on Marcia's whiteness.
Hattie had smudged Marcia! Hattie Had Smudged Marcia!
There it lay on her beautiful, helpless whiteness. Hattie's smudge.