Now she stood by the table as if turned into stone, and awaited the approach of an avenging fate. The day of practical jokes was over for her.
"IS NOT MILLICENT CAPABLE OF SPEAKING FOR HERSELF?"
She knew, she felt absolutely confident, that just as surely as Cousin Appolina had chosen the slippers of her own make, just so surely would she pounce upon the poem that Peggy had written about her.
Miss Briggs drew near.
"Well, girls!" she said, in her great deep voice, the gold lorgnette raised to her eyes—"well, girls, you did not expect to see me back so soon, did you? Washington became insupportable. Too many odious-looking people. I could not endure it. What have we here?" staring at the sign, "'Poems by Pearl Proctor, a member of the congregation'? And who may she be? Proctor—Proctor? I don't remember the name in New York. Proctor is a Boston name. Who is it, Millicent?"
Millicent trembled.
"I—I—" she faltered.
"You!" thundered her cousin. "Never! What do you mean?"
"Milly didn't mean to say that," interposed Peggy. "She was probably going to say she couldn't tell who it is. It is an assumed name, we suppose, Cousin Appolina."