Joy was always very
dependent for encouragement on the clothes she wore. The proper gown
could make her feel the way it looked, always. They almost had moods
sewed into them around the bottom, she thought sometimes.
The way she had felt last time she wore the amber satin with the
poem to it, that one she had hated so furiously--could she feel that
way again if she put on the dress? She'd felt young--oh, yes, but as
if youth were a perfectly splendid thing to have. And very alive,
and superior, and rebellious. And ready to have a lover, and to
treat him, if necessary, like a dog--like a whole kennel of dogs!
So she put it on. She made herself exactly the little princess of
Grandfather's reception days, trailing chiffon panels, swinging
jewel-filleted braids and all, and swept downstairs with her head high.
Tiddy had by this time managed to get the dinner on the table, and
the other two men, out of sheer pity, were helping him. In fact,
having enthroned Gail at the table, they were making a frolic of the
whole thing.
"Here, catch the steak, Rutherford," John was saying cheerfully. And
Clarence, with carving-knife and fork outheld, was making as neat a
catch as possible.
"Here, Tiddy, don't try to stagger in along under those biscuits.
You made 'em. That kind takes two strong men--I know, I've eaten
your biscuits before."
"I made these the regular way, with yeast," said Tiddy in an injured
voice.
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