And if he had
gone into the movies he would have made millions, beyond a doubt.
He drew Joy across the floor with him, in her green-and-silver
draperies, and began to wind the victrola, which had been tucked
into a nook where Mrs. Hewitt had vainly hoped it would be quite
hidden. There was to be an orchestra afterwards for the authorized
dancing.
Clarence put on "Poor Butterfly," and encircling Joy proceeded to
dance away with her.
"But I don't know how to dance," she gasped as she felt herself
being drawn smoothly across the floor.
"That doesn't matter, Sorcerette, dear," said Clarence blandly.
"Just let go--be clay in the hands of the potter. I'll do the
dancing for two. Hear me?"
Joy did as she was told, and--marvel of marvels!--found herself
following him easily. She was really dancing!
"But why did you call me that?" she demanded, like a child, as she
got her breath. To her apprehensive mind the name sounded as if Gail
had not only learned her dark secret but had passed it on to her
dear Cousin Clarence.
"Because you look it," said he promptly, in a voice that softened from
word to word. "...Harrington is a good dancer, isn't he? Phyllis looks
all right, but I fancy she guides hard. Those tall women often do....
Why, anybody with brows and lashes like yours, and hair that color,
combined with that angelic please-guide-me-through-a-hard-world
expression simply shrieks aloud for a name like that.
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