Before she moved Grandfather had finished his reading and the
people, who had been sitting and standing raptly about, began to
move; all fluttering dresses and perfumes, and little laughters, and
pleasant little speeches to each other. It was a part of the
reception that Joy usually looked forward to happily. She was just
pulling herself together for flight when Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones,
jingling, purple-upholstered and smiling, bore down on her.

"How is our dear little Joy-Flower this afternoon?" she asked as
inevitably as Fate, patting Joy's slim bare arm with one plump,
gloved hand, and beaming. "Oh, dearest child, _do_ you realize
the privilege you have? Think of actually living so close to a poet
that you become a part of his inspiration. Dear little Joy--"

Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones was one of the nicest, kindest, fattest people
that ever lived, and furthermore, she had taken Joy, all by herself,
to a performance of "Pelleas and Melisande" only the spring before.
And though Joy had thought privately that the people sang too long
at a time on one note, and wished Melisande was less athletic-looking,
she had liked it very much, and felt obliged to the lady ever since.
So she really shouldn't have behaved the way she did--if it hadn't
been for the lovers, she doubtless wouldn't have. As it was, she
braced herself against the easel.

"It isn't a privilege a bit," she said defiantly, out of a clear
sky. "It isn't half as much fun as being the kind of girl everybody
else is. I hate wearing moving-picture clothes" [not even in her
excitement could Joy bring herself to say "movies"] "and I hate
never knowing girls and men my own age, and I hate having poems
written to me worse than anything at _all_!"