against a background of Mark Twain's life-sized head in a broad gilt
frame. They faced another life-sized head of Browning, also
autographed, but they liked looking at each other better.

Joy, from her hiding-place, could feel the current of their
happiness and youth, and it made her very warm in her soul, and
comfortable. She listened to them quite unashamedly, as she would
have to a nice play.

"She has wonderful hair, hasn't she?" she heard the girl say.

"Not as lovely as my girl's," the man answered softly.

His girl laughed, a little low pleased laugh. "But you can't see
mine hanging down that way, like a picture," she fenced.

"I'm glad you don't wear it that way," he insisted. "I like you to
look like a real girl, not a movie star or an advertisement."

"Do you suppose she likes it?" asked the girl. "I'd go crazy if I
had to be like that--why, she isn't as old as I am! I suppose they
write poems about her, though," she added, as if that might be a
compensation.

"Oh, if _that's_ all--" began the man, and they both laughed
happily, as at a wonderful joke.

Joy, frozen behind her curtains, heard a little rustle, as if he was
taking her hand, and her protest--