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Gypsy always felt as if a present given in that way were no present; unless a thing cost her some self-denial, or some labor, she reasoned, it had nothing to do with her. If given directly out of her father's pocket, it was his gift, not hers. But then, how much handsomer Joy's things would be. Thus Gypsy was thinking in her secret heart, over and over. How could she help it?
For even if you are a little impostor who has captured a five-weeks' lover by means of a wishing ring, unlimited things to wear are nice, and having the man you are in love with want to pet you is nice, too! At the top of the stairs a thought struck her. Joy's thoughts had a way of arriving suddenly. She had set out to be happy. Very well!
The Olympians are a jovial lot. I have seen Joy's very self in heathendom." She moved away but he rose and followed her. "Whoever you are," he said in another tone, "your heritage of innocence and earnestness is plain as an open scroll upon your face. Nothing in all the world so appeals to the generosity in the heart of a man as the purity of the woman who is pure.
It sounded like a very happy "Oh," and Clarence, experienced love-pirate though he was, hadn't a way in the world of knowing that Joy's pleasure came of being still undiscovered, not of his winning ways. She danced on with him to the very last note of the record, enraptured to find that she really could dance, and came back to the end of the room where Mrs.
"Did you think Gail intended to go without one kind word the whole evening? Not so! Come, or I'll think you mean to be highly impolite." The same reluctance still held Joy's feet, and she did not like the insinuation, but there really seemed no way out. "Cheer up, Sorcerette, dear," he said in her ear, as he swept her away. "'Get happy, chile, ain't you done got me?" She did not talk.
Immense was the applause that followed the short, pithy speech of the Bourgeois. The ladies blushed and praised, the gentlemen cheered and enjoyed in anticipation the renewal of the old hospitalities of Belmont. "The skies are raining plum cakes!" exclaimed the Chevalier La Corne to his lively companion. "Joy's golden drops are only distilled in the alembic of woman's heart!
Popham, and I simply tried to show our gratitude to Mr. Thurston for teaching our troublesome children." "How did you know it was my birthday?" asked Thurston. "Didn't you write the date in Lallie Joy's book?" "True, I did; and forgot it long ago; but I have never had my birthday noticed before, and I am twenty-four!" "It was high time, then!" said Mother Carey with her bright smile.
One would suppose it to be a sort of co-partnership between the property of a boy and girl, in which the boy decidedly predominated. Into this wardrobe Gypsy looked regretfully. Three of those shelves—those precious shelves—must be Joy's now. And what should be done with the things? Then there were the bureau drawers.
Henry instinctively realised that here was a mystical side to Angel's nature which, however it might charm him, was not to be indiscriminately encouraged, and he tried to rally her out of her sadness, but her feeling was too much his own for him to persist; and as the moonlight moved in its ascension from one beautiful change to another, now woven by branches and leaves into weird tapestries of light and darkness, now hanging like some golden fruit from the boughs, and now uplifted like a lamp in some window of space, they sat together, alike held by the ancient spell; and, presently, Henry so far lost himself in it as to quote some lines entirely in Angel's mood: "She dwells with Beauty Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veiled Melancholy has her sov'ran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung."
Gypsy's heart gave a great thump. In that moment, in the moment of that horrible fear and that great relief, Gypsy knew for the first time that she loved Joy, and how much. "It's my ankle," moaned Joy; "it must be broken—I know it's broken." It was not broken, but very badly sprained. "Can you stand on it?" asked Gypsy, her face almost as pale as Joy's.
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