Doris glimmered softly, the old Doris struggling weakly but jubilantly back to her own again.
"Oh, Rosalie, don't talk about the bishop," she said.
MacCammon was waiting for them at the car, with several magazines and boxes of candy on hand to help give the car a professionally touring appearance. And after the chill fog of the last week, Doris came to him, gleaming and glowing.
"I am all rested now," she said, smiling tremulously. "Please, Mr. Wizard, may I ride in front?"
He looked at her in astonishment more utterly blank than ever. Then he looked helplessly at Rosalie, humming brightly to herself as she picked out the largest box of candy to take with her into the back seat.
"Can you beat that? They are, and then they aren't. And when you just about get your mind made up that they aren't, and no use to talk about it, all of a sudden they are. And nobody ever knows why, or how it happened."
"What are you talking about?" asked Doris curiously.
"Psychology, dear Doris. Please get in quickly—yes, here in front—oh, this seat slopes toward the middle, does it? Fine! Well, as I was saying, do you think I'd better tie you in before you decide you aren't? And as for psychology, there is no such thing—not in a world that has women."
It did seem rather heartless to be so ecstatically happy when poor dear father was having such trouble, but then, Doris thought philosophically, that is what religion is for—to make us happy even in spite of our grief.
The rest of the ride was wonderful, through such gloriously beautiful country, and as for the dust—it was nothing, and the car ran like velvet, and almost before they knew it they were settled in their little borrowed apartment, laughing at the tininess of it, and getting ready for MacCammon, who had gone to break his presence to his friend.