But if she wanted to
check her grandfather's inquiries she had taken the most perfect way
known to civilization. He couldn't possibly blame her for bolting if
the poem had to be put down. Nor even for being impolite to Mrs.
Harmsworth-Jones.
"You always say, 'The Muse must out,'" continued Joy defiantly. "Or
would you rather I didn't have any Muse?"
There was only one thing for Grandfather to say, and he said it.
"My dear, if you are really intending to do serious work along that
line nothing should prevent you. I quite understand."
Grandmother looked over at her little girl with a new respect--and
perhaps a new apprehension. One poet in a family is supposed to be
enough, as a rule. And Joy had always been such a good, dear child
to manage.
So no more was said. But Joy wondered if she hadn't let herself in
for something dreadful. Grandfather would certainly expect to see
that poem some day!
Nothing more was said about it for the two weeks that led to
Grandfather's next Afternoon. Joy was delighted to find that her
Muse wasn't asked for, and her grandparents may have been rather
pleased at her continuing to behave as she always had, instead of
saying curious things about wanting to be like other people. She
continued to wear her picture-frocks and do as she was told. Her own
feelings were that she had been naughty, but that she was rather
glad of it.
And so it was that when the reception day came around again, Joy
helped with the sandwiches and sliced the lemons and piled up the
little cakes and dressed herself prettily--and then went and hid at
the foot of the back stairs, with Aunt Lucilla for a companion.
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