"Don't worry about that. You'll have your chance."
The idea of a dominant, large-ideaed, hardworking John Hewitt
hungering for "his chance" in an amateur comic opera struck Joy as
so funny that she couldn't repress a small giggle and a glance
across at him. John caught her look and gave her an answering gleam
of amusement.
"You have the kindest heart in the world, Rutherford," said he
sedately, "and I'll never forget it of you. ... Joy, my dear, would
you mind running upstairs and seeing if Mother needs anything? And
you may put away those socks you've been doing in my top drawer at
the same time."
Joy stiffened a little at the tone of easy authority, and then
caught John's eye again. The amused look was still there--that, and
a look of certainty that she would help him play his hand. He was
getting neatly back at Clarence!
She rose meekly.
"Yes, John," she said in the very tone she would have used if the
alternative had been a beating, and excusing herself to Clarence in
the same meek voice, took herself and her completed work upstairs.
A glance at her room through the crack of the door told Joy that
Mrs. Hewitt was sleeping sweetly. She opened the door of John's room
with a more fearful heart. It seemed a little frightening to go into
his own private room where he lived. She pushed open the door and
tiptoed in.
It was a large room, very orderly, with a faint, fresh smell of
cigars and toilet water about it--the smell that no amount of airing
can ever quite drive out of a man's room.
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