“You mean he makes a fool of himself! I think he's disgusting. I wouldn't go to hear him speak for worlds!”
Raymond wisely changed the subject. And Missy soon enough forgot the disgusting Dobson in the press of nearer trials. She must get at that outline; she wanted to do it, and yet she shrank from beginning. As often happens when the mind is restless, she had an acute desire to do something with her hands. She wanted to go ahead with Marguerite's hat, but mother, who had a headache and was cross, put her foot down. “Not another minute of dawdling till you write that thesis!” she said, and she might as well have been Gabriel--or whoever it is who trumpets on the day of doom.
So Missy once more took up tablet and pencil. But what's the use commanding your mind, “Now, write!” Your mind can't write, can it?--till it knows what it's going to write about. No matter how much the rest of you wants to write.
At supper-time Missy had no appetite. Mother was too ill to be at the table, but father noticed it.
“Haven't caught mamma's headache, have you?” he asked solicitously.
Missy shook her head; she wished she could tell father it was her soul that ached. Perhaps father sensed something of this for, after glancing at her two or three times, he said:
“Tell you what!--Suppose you go to the lecture with me to-night. Mamma says she won't feel able. What do you say?”
Missy didn't care a whit to hear the disgusting Dobson, but she felt the reason for her reluctance mightn't be understood--might even arouse hateful merriment, for Aunt Nettie was sitting there listening. So she said evasively:
“I think mother wants me to work on my thesis.”
“Oh, I can fix it with mother all right,” said father.
Missy started to demur further but, so listless was her spirit, she decided it would be easier to go than to try getting out of it. She wouldn't have to pay attention to the detestable Dobson; and she always loved to go places with father.
And it was pleasant, after he had “fixed it” with mother, to walk along the dusky streets with him, her arm tucked through his as if she were a grown-up. Walking with him thus, not talking very much but feeling the placidity and sense of safety that always came over her in father's society, she almost forgot the offensive celebrity awaiting them in the Opera House.