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: