Joy's eyes fixed themselves on the distant scenery—excellent scenery, all autumn reds and yellows.
"I'll tell you the 'unless' tomorrow morning," she answered him sweetly, but none the less firmly.
"You are playing with me, Joy, I think," John answered in his most diagnostic tone—the exact tone in which he would have said, "You have smallpox, Joy, I think."
"Why, yes," she answered him demurely. "We were to, weren't we?"
"You'll have to wait out here a while; I have a case here," he told her in a voice which held a note of endurance.
She sat quite still, after suppressing a faint impulse to ask him if she should hold the motor. She leaned back and gave herself up to the country sights and sounds and scents, gently ecstatic.
"Oh, Aunt Lucilla!" she was saying inwardly. "You'd be proud of me!"
Joy was actually playing—he had said so—playing with a man!