brows and lashes like Joy's. And he had what is called immense
personal charm, and loved his little grand-daughter devotedly. He
simply didn't know she was grown up. For the matter of that, neither
did Joy herself until....

You see, it had been very much like life in a fairy-book. She never
remembered anything but the old house and the old people, and
everybody literary coming and going and telling her how wonderful
Grandfather was: and nothing that concerned _her_ very closely,
at all. She scarcely knew how to treat anybody, except respectfully,
because they had always all been so much older than she was. It was
like living in an enchanted tower. Enchanted towers are very
pleasant places, because you can have all sorts of dreams in them.
Joy hadn't missed anything much, till the thing that happened at the
reception.

Grandfather, in his frock-coat and stock, his white fluffy hair
flying, had been moving up and down the autographed parlors with his
usual dominant charm. Little gray Grandmother, in her gathered,
fichued black silk, was putting lemon or cream in teacups, as people
should prefer. Joy had been walking up and down by Grandfather, as
he liked to have her on reception days. They dressed her, on these
days, in lovely strange frocks, cut medieval fashion, with the ropes
of bronze-gold hair trailing down either side of her vividly
colored, incongruously dreamy little face. According to the way Joy
figured it out, Grandfather had her dress that way, the better to
write poetry about her. She didn't mind. The truth was, she lived so
far inside herself that she didn't care. It was so much easier to do
quickly what you were told, and then go back to the place where you
played by yourself--a fairy country.