"This little pink one, with the silver, has squish inside—be careful when you go to eat it. Mrs. Cuthbert got some on her new dress. I felt awfully. Miss Pyne tried to get it out with hot water, but I'm afraid she only made it worse. This is the kind they call mille feuelles—French; it means a thousand leaves, those little fine layers of pastry. This has r-r-rum in it!"
"My! I never saw anything like these! But then you always have everything so lovely!"
"Mr. Green brought these home. Look at the little kisses, made like mushrooms. Aren't they cunning?"
"Me, oh my! What next?"
"Your marguerites looked lovely, really lovely, Miss Smith. Lots of people spoke of them."
"Oh, them!"
"Isn't it a heavenly night? Look at all the stars!"
Miss Smith came out on the back porch and looked at the stars, obediently. So beautiful, so remote. Pussy was trying to get the lid off the garbage can again. Kate, going back to her house through air sweet and fresh as water, looked at the stars, too. And as she looked, her panoply of self-satisfaction fell away, leaving her small and alone, forlorn. What did it matter to this night of stars and dew that she and Joe had had a successful tea, that she had been "wonderful" about remembering poor Miss Smith? What did it matter to a sky full of burning worlds whether Joe and Kate and Jodie Green and Lizzie Kelly lived or
