"He's quite alive. Yes, that's Grandfather--and
this is one of my dresses for his receptions," she added as an
afterthought.
"Good _gracious!_" breathed Tiddy reverently. They were at the
canned peaches and pound-cake by this time. "I--I suppose you
couldn't say any of his things?" he ended diffidently. He was
evidently a worshiper.
Joy felt quite herself by now, the old self-possessed Joy of the
salon and recitations.
"Well, not over the dessert," she said, laughing. "But as soon as
dinner is over, if you want me to. There's one I say to a harp.
There's a harp here."
"Can you play a harp, too?" demanded Clarence, "as well as make
biscuits? See here, Tiddy, you forget your position in life. You're
a cook. Get thee to the kitchen, while Joy entertains us, who are
the real quality folks."
"Nonsense," smiled John. "We'll leave things as they are--can't we, Joy?"
He led the way into the parlor and uncovered the harp for her. No
one would have guessed by his demeanor that this was the first sign
he had had of Joy's accomplishment--he was as matter-of-fact as
possible about it. Only once he smiled across at her secretly, as if
they had something private between them, as she asked him which
thing he thought she had better say to begin with, and named one
immediately.
She flung back the chiffon that trailed down one slim, round arm,
and, after a little preliminary tuning, began to play. It was "To
Myrtilla at Seventeen" that John had suggested, and harp-music went
well with it.
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