"You're Cosma Wakely, aren't you?" she said. "My brother told me about meeting you." I couldn't think of a thing to say. I just kept thinking how the lace of her waist looked as if it hadn't ever been worn before; and I noticed her pretty, rosy, shining nails. "I wondered if you wouldn't go for a motor ride with my brother, Gerald, and myself, to-morrow afternoon?"
"Oh," I says, "I could, like anything."
And all that night when I woke up, I kept thinking what was going to happen, and it was in my head like, something saying something. It wasn't so much for the ride—it was that they'd been the way they'd been to me. That was it.
I put on my best dress and my best shoes and my other hat; and when I met Miss Massy in the parlor I see right off that I was dressed up too much. She had on a sweater and a little cap. I always noticed that about me—I dressed up when I'd ought not to, and times when I didn't everybody else was always dressed up.
Her brother came in, and I hadn't sensed before how good-looking he was. If ever he had come to Katytown, Lena Curtsy would have met him before he got half-way from the depot to the post-office.
Up to then, this was my most wonderful school-day. But it wasn't the ride. It was because they were both being to me the way they were.
We stopped at a little road-house for tea. I hated tea, and when they asked me to have tea, I said so. I said I'd select pop. Going back, it was the surprise of my school life that far when Antoinette Massy asked me if I would go home with her at the end of the week.
"Oh," I says, "I can't! I can't!"
"Do come," she says; "my brother will run us down. You can take your work with you."