The mixture of figures was too much for even Jean's very genuine mood.
"Oh, Patsy, you are the joy of my life. But I can't help it if I prefer my oysters without their clothes on."
"Yes, you can. And I hate to think of you not getting every scrap of joy there is in life. Sometimes it seems to me you just won't take things when they're right under your nose. Sometimes, you make me feel like a demented ant running about in a circle, and then again I know I'm right. While you sit round waiting for Life, it's being lived all round you. And yet, when you talk that way you make me feel as if you were sitting away off on a cloud somewhere, playing on a golden flute, while I'm down below leading a circus parade—beating a drum in a cloud of dust."
Jean sputtered into her cup and put it down for safety.
Pat grinned. "Well, the figure may be mixed, but that is precisely the way I feel. And I don't want you to sit up there always."
"But I will do things as soon as I get them to do. I can't pretend a doll's alive when I know it isn't."
"But they'll always be dolls if you go at them like that."
"No, they won't, Patsy. There must be some real live things in the world. And I'm going to get them. Even if I have to fall off my cloud and break my golden flute."
Jean bent and for a moment Pat's arms clasped her. Then they stood apart, smiling.
"All right. Go to it, old girl. Only yell in time so that I can get out from under. I never expect to have more than one drum in my life and I don't want it busted. You're no fairy."