Some day, perhaps, after she had written intellectual essays about Politics and such things, she might write about Life. About Life itself!

And the Cosmos!

Her chin sank to rest upon her palm. How beautiful were those pink roses in their leaf-green bowl--like a soft piece of music or a gently flowing poem. Maybe Mrs. Brooks would have floral decorations at her bridge-party. She hoped so--then she could write a really satisfying kind of paragraph--flowers were always so inspiring. Those pink petals were just about to fall. Yet, somehow, that made them seem all the lovelier. She could almost write a poem about that idea! Would Mr.

Martin mind if, now and then, she worked in a little verse or two? It would make Society reporting more interesting. For, she had to admit, Society Life in Cherryvale wasn't thrilling. Just lawn-festivals and club meetings and picnics at the Waterworks and occasional afternoon card-parties where the older women wore their Sunday silks and exchanged recipes and household gossip. If only there was something interesting--just a little dash of "atmosphere." If only they drank afternoon tea, or talked about Higher Things, or smoked cigarettes, or wore long ear-rings! But, perhaps, some day--in New York...

Missy's head drooped; she felt deliciously drowsy. Into the silence of her dreams a cheerful voice intruded:

"Missy, dear, it's after ten o'clock and you're nodding! Oughtn't you go up to bed?"

"All right, mother." Obediently she took her dreams upstairs with her, and into her little white bed.

Thursday afternoon, all shyness and importance strangely compounded, Missy carried a note-book to Mrs. Brooks's card-party. It was agreeable to hear Mrs. Brooks effusively explain: "Missy's working on the Beacon now, you know"; and to feel two dozen pairs of eyes upon her as she sat writing down the list of guests; and to be specially led out to view the refreshment-table. There was a profusion of flowers, but as Mrs. Brooks didn't have much "taste" Missy didn't catch the lilt of inspiration she had hoped for.

However, after she had worked her "write-up" over several times, she prefixed a paragraph on the decorations which she hoped would atone for the drab prosiness of the rest. It ran:

"Through the softly-parted portieres which separate Mrs. J. Barton Brooks's back-parlour from the dining room came a gracious emanation of scent and colour. I stopped for a moment in the doorway, and saw, abloom there before me, a magical maze of flowers. Flowers! Oh, multifold fragrance and tints divine which so ineffably enrich our lives! Does anyone know whence they come? Those fragile fairy creatures whose housetop is the sky; wakened by golden dawn; for whom the silver moon sings lullaby. Yes; sunlight it is, and blue sky and green earth, that endow them with their mysterious beauty; these, and the haze of rain that filters down when clouds rear their sullen heads. Sun and sky, and earth and rain; they alone may know--know the secrets of these fairy-folk who, from their slyly-opened petals, watch us at our hurrying business of life... We, mere humans, can never know. With us it must suffice to sweeten our hearts with the memory of fragrant flowers."

She was proud of that opening paragraph. But Ed Martin blue-pencilled it.

"Short of s.p.a.ce this week," he said. "Either the flowers must go or 'those present.' It's always best to print names." "Is the rest of it all right?" asked Missy, crest-fallen.

"Well," returned Ed, with whom everything had gone wrong that day and who was too hurried to remember the fluttering pinions of Youth, "I guess it's printable, anyhow."

It was "printable," and it did come out in print--that was something!

For months the printed account of Mrs. Brooks's "bridge" was treasured in the Merriam archives, to be brought out and pa.s.sed among admiring relatives. Yes, that was something! But, as habitude does inevitably bring a certain staleness, so, as the pile of little clipped reports grew bigger Missy's first prideful swell in them grew less.

Perhaps it would have been different had not the items always been, perforce, so much the same.

There was so little chance to be "original"--one must use the same little forms and phrases over and over again: "A large gathering a.s.sembled on Monday night at the home of--" "Mrs. So-and-so, who has been here visiting Mrs. What's-her-name, has returned--" One must crowd as much as possible into as little s.p.a.ce as possible. That was hard on Missy, who loved words and what words could do. She wasn't allowed much lat.i.tude with words even for "functions." "Function" itself had turned out to be one of her most useful words since it got by Ed Martin and, at the same time, lent the reported affair a certain distinguished air.

It was at a function--an ice-cream festival given by the Presbyterian ladies on Mrs. Paul Bonner's lawn--that Missy met Archie Briggs.

She had experienced a curious, vague stir of emotions about going to the Bonner home that evening; it was the first time she'd ever gone there when Raymond Bonner wasn't present. Raymond was the handsomest and most popular boy in her "crowd," and she used to be secretly pleased when he openly admired her more than he did the other girls--indeed, there had been certain almost sentimental pa.s.sages between Raymond and Missy. Of course all that happened before her horizon had "broadened"--before she encountered a truly distinguished person like Ridgeley Holman Dobson.

Yet memories can linger to disturb, and Missy was accompanied by memories that moonlit Wednesday evening when, in her "best" dress of pale pink organdie, she carried her note-book to the Bonners' to report the lawn-festival.

She had hesitated over the pink organdie; not many of the "crowd" were going, and it was to be for her a professional rather than a social occasion. Perhaps it was sentiment that carried the day. Anyway, she was soon to be glad she'd worn the pink organdie.

Before she had a chance to get in any professional work, Mrs. Bonner bore down on her with a tall young man, a stranger.

"Oh, Missy! I want you to meet Raymond's cousin, Archie Briggs. Archie, this is one of Raymond's friends, Miss Merriam." Missy was grateful for that "Miss Merriam."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Merriam," said Mr. Briggs. He was dark and not very good-looking--not nearly so good-looking as Raymond--but there was something in his easy, self-a.s.sured manner that struck her as very distingue. She was impressed, too, by the negligent way in which he wore his clothes; not nearly so "dressed-up" looking as the Cherryvale boys, yet in some subtle way decla.s.sing them. She was pleased that he seemed to be pleased with her; he asked her to "imbibe" some ice-cream with him.

They sat at one of the little tables out on the edge of the crowd. From there the coloured paper lanterns, swaying on the porch and strung like fantastic necklaces across the lawn, were visible yet not too near; far enough away to make it all look like an unreal, colourful picture. And, above all, a round orange moon climbing up the sky, covering the scene with light as with golden water, and sending black shadows to crawl behind bushes and trees.

It was all very beautiful; and Mr. Briggs, though he didn't speak of the scene at all, made a peculiarly delightful companion for that setting.

He was "interesting."

He talked easily and in a way that put her at her ease. She learned that he and his sister, Louise, had stopped off in Cherryvale for a few days; they were on their way back to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, from a trip to California. Had Miss Merriam ever been in California? No; she'd never been in California. Missy hated to make the admission; but Mr. Briggs seemed the kind of youth not to hold it against a pretty girl to give him a chance to exploit his travels. She was a flattering listener. And when, after California had been disposed of, he made a wide sweep to "the East," where, it developed, he attended college--had Miss Merriam ever been back East?

No; she'd never been back East. And then, with a big-eyed and appreciatively murmuring auditor, he dilated on the supreme qualities of that foreign spot, on the exotic delights of football and regattas and trips down to New York for the "shows." Yes, he was "interesting"!

Listening, Missy forgot even Mr. Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Here was one who had travelled far, who had seen the world, who had drunk deep of life, and who, furthermore, was near to her own age. And, other things being equal, nothing can call as youth calls youth. She wasn't conscious, at the time, that her idol was in danger of being replaced, that she was approaching something akin to faithlessness; but something came about soon which brought her a vague disturbance.

Missy, who had all but forgotten that she was here for a serious purpose, suddenly explained she had to get her "copy" into the office by ten o'clock; for the paper went to press next morning.

"I must go now and see some of the ladies," she said reluctantly.

"Well, of course, if you'd rather talk to the ladies--" responded Mr. Briggs, banteringly. "Oh, it's not that!" She felt a sense of satisfaction, in her own importance as she went on to explain:

"I want to ask details and figures and so forth for my report in the paper--I'm society editor of the Beacon, you know."

"Society editor!--you? For Pete's sake!"

At first Missy took his tone to denote surprised admiration, and her little thrill of pride intensified.

But he went on:

"What on earth are you wasting time on things like that for?"

"Wasting time--?" she repeated. Her voice wavered a little.

"I'd never have suspected you of being a highbrow," Mr. Briggs continued.

Missy felt a surge akin to indignation--he didn't seem to appreciate her importance, after all. But resentment swiftly gave way to a kind of alarm: why didn't he appreciate it?

"Don't you like highbrows?" she asked, trying to smile.

"Oh, I suppose they're all right in their place," said Mr. Briggs lightly. "But I never dreamed you were a highbrow."

It was impossible not to gather that this poised young man of the world esteemed her more highly in his first conception of her. Impelled by the eternal feminine instinct to catch at possibly flattering personalities, Missy asked:

"What did you think I was?" "Well," replied Mr. Briggs, smiling, "I thought you were a mighty pretty girl--the prettiest I've seen in this town." (Missy couldn't hold down a fluttering thrill, even though she felt a premonition that certain lofty ideals were about to be a.s.sailed.)

"The kind of girl who likes to dance and play tennis and be a good sport, and all that."

"But can't a--" Missy blushed; she'd almost said, "a pretty girl." "Can't that kind of girl be--intellectual, too?"

"The saints forbid!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr. Briggs with fervour.

"But don't you think that everyone ought to try--to enlarge one's field of vision?"

At that Mr. Briggs threw back his head and laughed a laugh of unrestrained delight.

"Oh, it's too funny!" he chortled. "That line of talk coming from a girl who looks like you do!"

Even at that disturbed moment, when she was hearing sacrilege aimed at her most cherished ideals--perilously swaying ideals, had she but realized it--Missy caught the pleasing significance of his last phrase, and blushed again. Still she tried to stand up for those imperilled ideals, forcing herself to ask:

"But surely you admire women who achieve--women like George Eliot and Frances Hodgson Burnett and all those?"