Part 30 (1/2)

”Of course you can,” said he. ”As a matter of fact, that's my princ.i.p.al reason for getting it up. I have a book that contains all the Gilbert librettos in my most bulging pocket. You and I will wander out into the wonderful autumn woods, and sit down on a soft, pleasant log, and pick out the opera, and the cast, and be happy generally. Only I won't play unless, as. I explained last night, you are a leading lady with a real star part. As I'm a wonderful stage manager I feel strongly that it will be thus.”

”Thank you,” said Joy amiably but absently. Something appalling had just occurred to her.

”Good gracious,” she told him, ”it's a special occasion, and the cook and the waitress are both going off to funerals or something, and Gail is going to have to get that whole dinner single-handed!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

DINNER FOR FIVE

Clarence smiled most agreeably.

”You should try to be more of an optimist, dear Joy,” he reproved.

”Try to live up to your name.”

”I got it out of Blake,” said Joy, ”or they did--and I never did see why you should live up to a name your grandfather pinned on you out of a poetry book.”

”Pardon this seeming curiosity,” hinted Clarence, ”but didn't you ever have any parents, not even to the extent of their having a chance to name you?”

”They died before I was born,” Joy explained. ”At least, as much as they could. My father quite did and my mother died before I was a week old. So Grandfather had it all to do, as far as naming went.

You know that horrid poem--

_”I have no name-- I am but three days old:”_

”And it's called Infant Joy, and so was I.”

”They seem to have begun wrecking your taste for literature early,”

observed Clarence.

”Oh--literature!” said Joy wearily.

”Your tone hints that we didn't come off to discuss the poets. You are quite right, Sorcerette. When two charming young persons like ourselves are alone together on a wonderful fall afternoon they should discuss only each other. And you must admit that my references to literature were only incidental to yourself.”

”Well, anyway,” stated Joy, pausing as they strolled, and beginning to braid into a garland a handful of wild asters she had gathered, ”anyway, I ought to go back to the house and help Gail get dinner.

John likes things just so.”

”Heavens, how marital!” sighed Clarence, wincing. Then suddenly he seemed more in earnest than Joy had ever known him. ”Can't you ever talk or think of anything but the admirable John? How on earth did he get you so thoroughly broken in?”

Joy's cheeks flamed.

”He didn't 'break me in,'” she defended. ”But I think I ought to see to it that things are all right. You see, when your cousin came and offered to take over the housekeeping--if she wasn't your cousin, I might say she got it away from me--she thought she was helping herself to a 'nice, clane, aisy job,' as the Irishman said about being a bishop. It really isn't fair to let her in for work she didn't expect.”

The look Clarence bent on her this time held genuine admiration.

”I think it is exceedingly fair,” was all he said.

”Really?” she asked. She certainly did not want to go back to the house, and, n.o.ble as Clarence might think her, she didn't feel a bit like taking orders from Gail.