When young Doc politely enquired whether she could steal enough time from her errand to turn about for a run up “The Boulevard,” Missy acquiesced. She regretted she hadn't worn her shirred mull hat. But she decided not to worry about that. After all, her appearance, at the present moment, didn't so much matter. What did matter was the way she was going to look next Wednesday--and she excitedly began telling young Doc about her coming magnificence, “It's silk organdie,” she said in a reverent tone, “and has garlands of rosebuds.” She went on and told him of the big leghorn hat to be filled with flowers, of the Pink Stockings--best of all, silk!--waiting, in tissue-paper, in the high-boy drawer. “Oh, I can hardly wait!” she concluded rapturously. Young Doc, guiding the car around the street-sprinkling wagon, did not answer. Beyond the wagon, Mr. Hackett, whom the Ford had overtaken, was swinging along. Missy turned to young Doc with a slight grimace. “'The poor craven bridegroom said never a word,'” she quoted. Young Doc permitted himself to smile--not too much. “Why don't you like him, Missy?” Missy shook her head, without other reply. It would have been difficult for her to express why she didn't like stylish Mr. Hackett. “I wish,” she said suddenly, “that you were going to be the bridegroom, Doc.” He smiled a wry smile at her. “Well, to tell the truth, I wish so, too, Missy.” “Well, she'll be coming back to visit us often, and maybe you can take us out riding again.” “Maybe--but after getting used to big imported cars, I'm afraid one doesn't care much for a Ford.” There was a note of cynicism, of pain, which, because she didn't know what it was, cut Missy to the heart. It is all very well, in Romance and Poems, to meet with unhappy, discarded lovers--they played an essential part in many of the best ballads in the Anthology; but when that romantic role falls, in real life, on the shoulders of a nice young Doc, the matter assumes a different complexion. Missy's own ecstasy over the Wedding suddenly loomed thoughtless, selfish, wicked. She longed timidly to reach over and pat that lean brown hand resting on the steering-wheel. Two sentences she formed in her mind, only to abandon them unspoken, when, to her relief, the need for delicate diplomacy was temporarily removed by the car's slowing to a stop before Miss Martin's gate.