Part 32 (1/2)

Joy went out obediently.

”John, I am to send you back as I go through. Tiddy can't do the drafts right,” she repeated in a colorless voice that had anger underneath it, and walking on as she spoke.

”Drafts--nonsense--Gail's lonesome,” Clarence answered cheerfully, from the couch where he had thrown himself.

”All right,” said John, who was the soul of politeness, but an annoyingly dense person compared to Clarence, it seemed to Joy. He went out. Joy ran upstairs as fast as she could go. She arrived at the top, breathless and still angry, and remembered that she ought to go in and see Mrs. Hewitt. But the lights were low, generally a sign that the lady was asleep, so she went on to her own room.

”Blown to bits!” she said to herself bitterly, stopping opposite her confidant, the mirror. ”And _she_ sitting on a chair looking like Marie Antoinette being taken to execution in a kitchen chair!”

It was a breathless and tautological remark, but it relieved her feelings. ”I oughtn't to feel that way,” she reminded herself.

”Because after all, Gail _was_ here first!”

This didn't seem to make much difference in the feelings. And it was unquestionable that she was blown about, and very young and owned no black dress with poppies, nor yet any college boy who would cook for her at a wave of the hand.

She pawed her wardrobe through furiously. Joy was always very dependent for encouragement on the clothes she wore. The proper gown could make her feel the way it looked, always. They almost had moods sewed into them around the bottom, she thought sometimes.

The way she had felt last time she wore the amber satin with the poem to it, that one she had hated so furiously--could she feel that way again if she put on the dress? She'd felt young--oh, yes, but as if youth were a perfectly splendid thing to have. And very alive, and superior, and rebellious. And ready to have a lover, and to treat him, if necessary, like a dog--like a whole kennel of dogs!

So she put it on. She made herself exactly the little princess of Grandfather's reception days, trailing chiffon panels, swinging jewel-filleted braids and all, and swept downstairs with her head high.

Tiddy had by this time managed to get the dinner on the table, and the other two men, out of sheer pity, were helping him. In fact, having enthroned Gail at the table, they were making a frolic of the whole thing.

”Here, catch the steak, Rutherford,” John was saying cheerfully. And Clarence, with carving-knife and fork outheld, was making as neat a catch as possible.

”Here, Tiddy, don't try to stagger in along under those biscuits.

You made 'em. That kind takes two strong men--I know, I've eaten your biscuits before.”

”I made these the regular way, with yeast,” said Tiddy in an injured voice. ”_I_ couldn't help it if they didn't rise in the oven.

Go rag the cookbook.”

Joy could stand it no longer. Forgetting her real state, she rushed out on them, where they wrestled with the dinner and Tiddy. They were playing handball with the biscuits by this time.

”Oh, _Tiddy!_ You didn't put _yeast_ in those biscuits!”

she reproached him. ”Why, you poor unfortunate boy, yeast has to rise over night, or an afternoon anyhow! They're no use!”

They all three stopped simultaneously at the vision which she had quite honestly forgotten she presented. Tiddy listened humbly, and Clarence made a low bow.

”The Queen came in the kitchen, speaking bread and honey,” he quoted appositely, while John looked both pleased and proud.

”There, I told you so,” he said with triumph. ”I said you were in wrong with those biscuits. Joy always knows.”

”'It was the very best b.u.t.ter,'” quoted Tiddy (who was not without a sense of humor), from ”Alice.”

”But what can we do?” asked John, who was concentrated on the situation. ”The steak's all right--any idiot can broil steak, as Tiddy has proved--” he had to stop short to dodge a biscuit--”and the soup came out of a can, so maybe that'll do. But there isn't a bit of bread, and we simply have to have it. At least I suppose so.”

”Get me an ap.r.o.n, please,” Joy asked of the surroundings, and two ap.r.o.ns were offered her excitedly by three willing hands. She pinned both on, as a precaution against ruining the amber satin, though she didn't much mind if it had been ruined, and began by investigating the soup. It was the best canned tomato bisque, but its cook had not known or read that it should be watered, or milked, and it was so thick it was almost stiff. She sent Clarence for milk out of the refrigerator, and treated it properly. Then she looked at the biscuits, such as had escaped destruction. They were indeed hopeless.

”I can make biscuits in a minute, but it will take a half-hour to bake them in this range,” she told them, where they stood, anxiously awaiting her verdict. ”If you didn't mind having them baked on a griddle----”

”Like the ones the fellow does in the window at Childs'! Fine!”