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—
"Oh, Dicky, don't—they'll see us!"
"Not a bit," said he cheerfully. "They're all looking at dear Grandpapa, the Angora Poet—oldest in captivity to be reading his own sonnets. Bet you it's about the little girl, poor kid—he seems to be looking around for her."