"Oh, John, I'm so glad you chose such a darling!" said Phyllis warmly, putting her hands on his shoulders, as "A Perfect Day" floated back to them from above. "You know, Johnny, even the best of men do marry so—so surprisingly. She might have been—"
"'She might have been a Roosian, or French or Dutch or Proosian,'" he quoted frivolously. "Well, Phyllis, I'm glad you approve of my—ah—choice. How long do you think it will take it to get its hat on?"
"Oh, you can laugh," Phyllis answered him, "but I know you're proud of her, just the same."
"Well, she's creditable," said John unemotionally, but with a little smile beginning to show at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm ready!" called Joy breathlessly from the top of the stairs, and ran down tumultuously. "Oh, Phyllis, can't I have some roses to take to John's sick people—the poor ones? I want them to like me!"
"Help yourself." Phyllis granted promptly.
"Not a bit of it." John contradicted her coolly. "You must teach them to love you for yourself alone. Come on, kiddie."
He tucked her hand under his arm and hurried her, laughing, down the drive. Phyllis ran after them with a too-late-remembered motor-veil, which she managed to convey into the car by the risky method of tying a stone in it and throwing the stone. It just missed John, and Joy nearly fell out, turning to wave thanks for it.
John threw his arm around her hastily to hold her in, and so Phyllis saw them out of sight.
"You needn't do that any more," observed Joy as they sped on. "There's nobody can see us now."