He began to speak, about something that didn't seem particularly interesting to Missy; so she didn't pay much attention to what he was saying, but just sat there listening to the pleasing flow of his voice and noting the graceful sweep of his hands--she must remember that effective gesture of the palm held outward and up. And she liked the way, now and then, he threw his head back and paused and smiled. Suddenly she caught herself smiling, almost as if in response, and quickly put on a sternly grave look. This woman-kissing siren!--or whatever you call men that are like women sirens. Well, she, for one, wouldn't fall for his charms! She wouldn't rush up and knock other women down to kiss him! She was flaunting her disapproval before her as a sort of banner when, finally, the lecturer came to an end and the audience began their noisy business of getting out of their seats. Missy glanced about, suspicious yet alertly inquisitive. Would the women rush up and kiss him? Her eyes rested on prim Mrs. Siddons, on silly Miss Lightner, on fat, motherly Mrs. Allen, Kitty's mother. Poor Kitty, if her mother should so disgrace herself!--Missy felt a moment's thankfulness that her own mother was safely home in bed. A lot of people were pushing forward up the aisle toward the lecturer; some were already shaking hands with him--men as well as women. Then Missy heard herself uttering an amazing, unpremeditated thing: “Would you like to go up and shake hands with Mr. Dobson, father?” The moment after, she was horrified at herself. Why had she said that? She didn't want to shake hands with a repulsive siren! But father was answering: “What? You, too!” Just what did he mean by that? And by that quizzical sort of smile? She felt her cheeks growing hot, and wanted to look away. But, now, there was nothing to do but carry it through in a casual kind of way. “Oh,” she said, “I just thought, maybe, it might be interesting to shake hands with such a celebrity.” “I see,” said father. He was still smiling but, taking hold of her arm, he began to elbow a slow progress toward the platform. Just before they reached it, Missy felt a sudden panicky flutter in her heart. She shrank back. “You go first,” she whispered. So father went first and shook hands with Mr. Dobson. Then he said: “This is my daughter.” Not able to lift her eyes, Missy held out her hand; she observed that Mr. Dobson's was long and slender but had hair on the back of it--he ought to do something about that; but even as she thought this, the hand was enclosing hers in a clasp beautifully warm and strong; and a voice, wonderfully deep and pleasant and vibrant, was heard saying: “Your daughter?--you're a man to be envied, sir.”