"Gail said there had to be a good dinner," he said worriedly, "but I
don't know how to make many things. This is soup.... It doesn't look
right to me, somehow. Come here, Clarence, and give it a once over."
Joy, leaning against the lintel with John a little behind her as
usual, couldn't help but admire Gail. She knew perfectly well that
it would never have occurred to her in Gail's place to sit placidly
in a chair while a lad who ought to have been at home studying-Tiddy
was cramming to catch up with his class at college--wrestled with
the stove. But, after all, that was the sort of thing she had always
read of sirens doing. And even if the victim was only a little
college boy, of what Clarence called frying size, it was a sight to
make one wishful. Also apprehensive--mightn't Gail set John peeling
potatoes next? That sight would be an annoying one from various angles.
John showed no signs of being about to yield, at least at the
moment. He joined Clarence in teasing Tiddy, who took it very
sweetly, but he finally came forward and showed the lad how to
manage the drafts.
"Call us when you're ready, Cookie," said Clarence amiably, and
sauntered out. John followed him.
"Can't I help?" asked Joy, staying conscientiously behind. She still
felt that it was her responsibility.
"Not a bit," said Gail. "We're getting along wonderfully. You'd
better go up and get straightened out, though--you look blown to
bits.
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