For a moment she thought he was not going to answer at all. He looked down at her silently. Then he spoke, a little abruptly.
"I never planned her in much detail," he said. "She always seemed to be dressed in blue, or in white, and her hair was parted. She seemed to be connected with a fireplace," he ended inconsequently, and laughed a little at himself. "You see, I'm not an imaginative person."
"I only wanted you to let me play I was that girl for this month," Joy answered desperately, with her eyes down, speaking very low.
John, who had been staring down at her in a half-puzzled way, looked as if he was suddenly reassured that she was only a little girl, after all—not a provoking firefly, but a wistful, unconscious child who only wanted to do her best to please.
"I want to be good," she said meekly.
"So you are," said John warmly.
"Am I?" she asked softly, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.
And—John was getting to do that sort of thing quite unnecessarily often—he laughed and bent toward her with every intention of kissing her again.
"Oh, that wasn't what I meant," she assured him. Then her mood suddenly changed. "John, you have what one of Grandfather's anarchist friends called a real from-gold heart. But you don't have to do that unless..."
"Unless what?" demanded John, quite coldly removing all of himself that he could from her half of the seat.