was a long time since Grandmother had been Myrtilla at seventeen!
Joy looked at her wistfully once more.

"No, thank you, Grandmother," she said decidedly. "I feel very well,
thank you. I'll be down to supper as soon as I've changed my frock."

She felt as if getting off the actual clothes that were in the poem
would be escaping from it a little, and perhaps drawing a little
nearer the having of real things happen to her. Grandmother, nearly
reassured, patted Joy's little slim hand with her own little
wrinkled one, and trotted downstairs to tell Grandfather happily
that Joy would soon be down.

Joy, left alone, pulled off the amber robe, and stood before the
wardrobe in her silk slip, pushing along the hangers to try and find
something practical. It was pretty hard. All her gowns were lovely
loose or draped or girdled things: you could have costumed the whole
cast of two Maeterlinck plays from just those hangers. She was very
tired, suddenly, of all of them. At last she found a green dress
that was the delight of her life, even if it was picturesque,
because it was such a nice, cheerful color, put it on, and went
down. She had tried to fasten her hair up as the lover-girl's had
been fastened, but hers was so curly and heavy and alive and long
that it couldn't be done. She strapped it in desperation around her
head, wished she had some powder, and dashed down the long flights
of stairs just in time to save herself from a second summons. She
wasn't quite satisfied with her own general effect, but it would do
for a beginning.

So, dreamer as she still was, nevertheless the only thing alight and