Dunno," replied Raymond. "The blonde one's sort of bughouse,
anyway. And the other one, Missy Merriam, gets sorta queer streaks
sometimes--you don't know just what's eating her. She's sorta funny, but
she's a peach, all right."

"She the one with the eyes?"

Raymond suddenly turned and stared at the new fellow.

"Yes," he assented, almost reluctantly.

"Some eyes!" commented the other, gazing after the vanishing equipage.

Raymond looked none too pleased. But it was too late, now, to spike
Fate's spinning wheel. Missy was terribly cast down by the afternoon's
history; but not so cast down that she had lost sight of the obligation
to invite to her dinner a boy who had rescued her--anyhow, he had tried
to rescue her, and that was the same thing. So a carte must be issued to
"Mr. Ed Brown." After all, what's in a name?--hadn't Shakespeare himself
said that?

At supper, Missy didn't enjoy her meal. Had father or mother heard? Once
she got a shock: she glanced up suddenly and caught father's eyes on
her with a curious expression. For a second she was sure he knew; but he
said nothing, only looked down again and went on eating his chop.

That evening mother suggested that Missy go to bed early. "You didn't
eat your supper, and you look tired out," she explained.

Missy did feel tired--terribly tired; but she wouldn't have admitted it,
for fear of being asked the reason. Did mother, perhaps, know? Missy had
a teasing sense that, under the placid, commonplace conversation, there
was something unspoken. A curious and uncomfortable feeling. But, then,
as one ascertains increasingly with every year one lives, Life is filled
with curious and often uncomfortable feelings. Which, however, one would
hardly change if one could, because all these things make Life so much
more complex, therefore more interesting. The case of Ben was in
point: if he had not "cut up," it might have been weeks before she got
acquainted with the Dark Stranger!

Still pondering these "deep" things, Missy took advantage of her
mother's suggestion and went up to undress. She was glad of the chance
to be alone.

But she wasn't to be alone for yet a while. Her mother followed her and
insisted on helping unfasten her dress, turning down her bed, bringing
some witch-hazel to bathe her forehead--a dozen little pretexts to
linger. Mother did not always perform these offices. Surely she must
suspect. Yet, if she did suspect, why her kindness? Why didn't she