wanted to be nice. With this new viewpoint drenching her like cold
water it didn't seem nice a bit.

She pulled the curtain stealthily apart and peeped out. Everything
seemed fairly all right. Between her and Grandfather, a useful
shelter, spread the massive purple-velvet back of Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones,
who always came, and always asked afterwards, "And how is our little
Joy-Flower today?" She was as good as she could be, but she was one
more of the things Joy felt as if she couldn't stand right now.

She tiptoed very carefully indeed past Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones, and
past Grandfather's bronze bust at twenty-five, and almost past the
framed autograph letter of Whittier, on the easel. That was as far
as she got, because there was a nail sticking out at the side of the
Whittier frame, and it caught her by one of the straps that held her
satin panels together across the violet chiffon sidepieces. The
framed letter came down with a clatter, spoiling the last line of
the poem forever; and Joy was caught, for of course every one turned
around to see what the noise was.

Grandfather, who had great presence of mind, read the last four
lines of the poem over again slowly, directly at Joy, who stood like
a wistful little figure out of Fairyland, pressed back against the
easel; her frightened eyes wide, her golden-bronze braids glimmering
in the firelight. It seemed to her that the delivery of those last
four lines was endless.

Yet they were done at last, and still Joy stood motionless. She
really did not know how to run away, because she had never done it.