He bent over her.
"Having a good time, kiddie?" he asked her gently. She nodded, her
eyes like stars.
"Oh, I'm _people_, at last!" she said with a soft exultance.
"I've always looked on and looked on, like a doll or a mechanical
figure--and I'm real--I'm in the midst of things! And it's all you
and the wishing ring! ... John, did you see? Your people--they really
liked me!"
"Of course they did, you little goosie," he told her, smiling down
at her. "You have more personal charm than almost any girl I ever
knew. I don't know any one who doesn't like you."
"Gail doesn't," Joy ventured.
John shook his head.
"You don't understand Gail," he said. "She's a mighty brilliant
girl. She doesn't often like other girls, I admit that--but she took
to you. I could see it."
"Could you?" flashed Joy. "Men see so much! ... She's beckoning to you."
She flung her head back angrily. Nobody likes to be told she doesn't
understand another girl--and the fact that the girl is mighty
brilliant doesn't make you feel better about it.
"I'll be back in just a moment," said John obliviously, and went
with what seemed to Joy unnecessary docility.
She stood there alone, her hands clasped hard, her head up--to all
appearance a vivid, triumphant little figure. Her heart was beating
like mad and her cheeks burnt. She had just found out something
about herself, something that a wiser, older woman would have known
a long time ago: as long ago as when the Wishing Ring Man stood, the
light glinting on his fair hair and sturdy shoulders, in the opening
of Grandfather's hall door.
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