As she sat and hummed to herself and wrote, the telephone rang. She
sprang to it with that unquestioned obedience which telephone-bells
cow us into, and listened. The Harrington children had called her up
a couple of times, and she thought it might be Philip. Or maybe
Clarence. But instead, she heard Gail's slow, assured voice.
"Clarence has been telling me the sad story of your life," she
drawled, "and implores me to rescue you. I'm coming over to do it in
a moment or so--as soon as I can detach Harold Gray from my side....
I've told him he also must devote himself to your service, so expect
him along some time today."
She hung up without waiting for an answer, before Joy could do
anything. She sat back in her chair, staring out the window in
dismay. She had no idea what Clarence might have said about
anything, but she devoutly wished he hadn't said it. She did not
want Gail in her house. She caught herself up. That was the way she
was coming to think of it--her house!
"Well, it isn't," she reminded herself. "After all, I'm a pilgrim
and a stranger, and Gail is an old friend."
She returned to her list and her planning, though the fun was all
out of it; and when Gail arrived a half-hour later, a bunch of
chrysanthemums in her belt and a small grip in her hand, she greeted
her with admirable calm.
She wished for a moment that Clarence had seen fit to come himself.
He might say too familiar things, but at least there was an
undertone of admiration about him very comforting in Gail's
half-scornful presence.
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