Instead, she opened her eyes with the excitement of it all still pulsing through her. The fact that John was in the world and she could care for him seemed almost enough to account for the sense of happiness that possessed her as she pattered over to the window and looked out. And what little more was needed to account for her exhilaration could be found in the wonderful September morning outside. There probably were troubles somewhere or other, such as darkened city parlors, minor poets, and sophisticated seekers after John, but somehow she and they didn't connect. The air was so tingling and sunny, and the garden was so beautiful, and being young and free and in the country was so heavenly that she dressed and ran down, and sang along the garden paths as she picked herself a big bunch of golden chrysanthemums and purple and pink asters.
Nobody else, apparently, was stirring yet. Joy was beginning to feel hungry, so she strayed into the dining-room, to see whether by any chance anybody else was down.
Phyllis was just coming into the dining-room, with her son frolicking about her.
"How do you feel after your triumph last night?" she asked. "Dead; or do you want another party this morning? I was proud of you, Joy. Everybody told me how pretty you were, and how charming, and how intelligent it was of me to be a friend of yours."
Joy flushed with genuine pleasure.
"Oh, was I—did they?" she asked. "Phyllis, it was lovely! ... And think of being able to dance like that without knowing how! That was just a plain miracle, if you like!"
"Good-morning, Joy," said Allan, coming in at this point.
He sat down with them and attacked his grapefruit.
"I see I'm two laps behind on breakfast. Philip, you young rascal, where's my cherry?"
Philip giggled uncontrollably.