Oh, and send John back as you go through, Tiddy can't do the
drafts right."
Joy went out obediently.
"John, I am to send you back as I go through. Tiddy can't do the
drafts right," she repeated in a colorless voice that had anger
underneath it, and walking on as she spoke.
"Drafts--nonsense--Gail's lonesome," Clarence answered cheerfully,
from the couch where he had thrown himself.
"All right," said John, who was the soul of politeness, but an
annoyingly dense person compared to Clarence, it seemed to Joy. He
went out. Joy ran upstairs as fast as she could go. She arrived at
the top, breathless and still angry, and remembered that she ought
to go in and see Mrs. Hewitt. But the lights were low, generally a
sign that the lady was asleep, so she went on to her own room.
"Blown to bits!" she said to herself bitterly, stopping opposite her
confidant, the mirror. "And _she_ sitting on a chair looking
like Marie Antoinette being taken to execution in a kitchen chair!"
It was a breathless and tautological remark, but it relieved her
feelings. "I oughtn't to feel that way," she reminded herself.
"Because after all, Gail _was_ here first!"
This didn't seem to make much difference in the feelings. And it was
unquestionable that she was blown about, and very young and owned no
black dress with poppies, nor yet any college boy who would cook for
her at a wave of the hand.
She pawed her wardrobe through furiously.
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