er, home from the office, was full of indignation over something
"disgraceful" he had heard down town. Though the conversation was held
tantalizingly above Missy's full comprehension, she could gather that
the "disgrace" centred in the bachelor dinner which Mr. Hackett had
given at the Commercial House the night before. Father evidently held no
high opinion of the introduction of "rotten Cleveland performances" nor
of the man who had introduced them.

"What 'rotten Cleveland performances'?" asked Missy with lively
curiosity.

"Oh, just those late, indigestible suppers," cut in mother quickly.
"Rich food at that hour just kills your stomach. Here, don't you want
another strawberry tart, Missy?"

Missy didn't; but she affected a desire for it, and then a keen interest
in its consumption. By this artifice, she hoped she might efface herself
as a hindrance to continuation of the absorbing talk. But it is a trick
of grown-ups to stop dead at the most thrilling points; though she
consumed the last crumb of the tart, her ears gained no reward, until
mother said:

"As soon as you've finished dinner, Missy, I wish you'd run over to
Greenleafs' and ask to borrow Miss Helen's new kimono pattern."

Missy brightened. The sight of old Mrs. Greenleaf and Miss Princess,
bustling gaily about, would lift this strange cloud gathering so
ominously. She asked permission to carry along a bunch of sweet peas,
and gathered the kind Miss Princess liked best--pinkish lavender
blossoms, a delicious colour like the very fringe of a rainbow.

The Greenleafs' coloured maid let her in and showed her into the "den"
back of the parlour. "I'll tell Mrs. Greenleaf," she said. "They're all
busy upstairs."

Very busy they must have been, for Missy had restlessly dangled her feet
for what seemed hours, before she heard voices approaching the parlour.

"Oh, I won't--I won't--" It was Miss Princess's voice, almost
unrecognizably high and quavering.

"Now, just listen a minute, darling--" This unmistakably Mr. Hackett's
languorous, curiously repellent monotone.

"Don't you touch me!"

Missy, stricken by the knowledge she was eavesdropping, peered about for
a means of slipping out. But the only door, portiere-hung, was the one
leading into the parlour. And now this concealed poor blundering Missy
from the speakers while it allowed their talk to drift through.

That talk, stormy and utterly incomprehensible, filled the child with
a growing sense o