The horsewoman continued to survey herself dubiously, took in the bright scarlet sweater which formed the top part of her costume. The girls had first sought a more tailored variety of coat, but peres Merriam and O'Neill were both, selfishly, very large men; Tess had brilliantly bethought the sweater--the English always wore scarlet for hunting, anyway. Missy then had warmly applauded the inspiration, but now her warmth was literal rather than figurative; it was a hot day and the sweater was knitted of heavy wool. She fingered her stock collar--one of Mrs. O'Neill's guest towels--and tried to adjust her derby more securely.
“Your father has an awfully big head,” she commented. “Oh, they always wear their hats way down over their ears.” Then, a little vexed at this necessity for repeated reassurance, Tess broke out irritably:
“If you don't want to wear the get-up, say so! I'LL wear it! I only let you wear it first trying to be nice to you!”
Then Missy, who had been genuinely moved by Tess's decision that the first wearing of the costume should make up for her chum's week of punishment, pulled herself together.
“Of course I want to wear it,” she declared. “I think it's just fine of you to let me wear it first.”
She spoke sincerely; yet, within the hour, she was plotting to return her friend's sacrifice with a sort of mean trick. Perhaps it was fit and just that the trick turned topsy-turvy on herself as it did. Yet the notion did not come to her in the guise of a trick on Tess. No; it came just as a daring, dashing, splendid feat in which she herself should triumphantly figure--she scarcely thought of Tess at all.
It came upon her, in all its dazzling possibilities, while she was cantering along the old road which runs back of Smith's woods. She and Tess had agreed it would be best, till they'd “broke in” Cherryvale to the novelty of breeches, to keep to unfrequented roads. But it was the inconspicuousness of the route, the lack of an admiring audience, which gave birth to Missy's startling Idea. Back in the barn she'd felt self-conscious. But now she was getting used to her exposed legs. And doing really splendidly on Dr. O'Neill's saddle. Sitting there astride, swaying in gentle rhythm with Gypsy's springing motion she began to feel truly dashing, supremely swagger. She seemed lifted out of herself, no longer timid, commonplace, unathletic Missy Merriam, but exalted into a sort of free-and-easy, Princess Royal of Swaggerdom. She began to wish someone might see her...