“All this haste to get married while you’re young is idiotic,” said Steve, with an air of settling the subject. “If he says the modern girl is selfish because she doesn’t want to let herself in for the cares and risks of marriage until she has an everlasting good time out of her youth, he’s talking rot. The modern girl’s got a sane argument, and it’s the same one I’d use for myself. Marriage clips your wings, whether you’re a man or a girl, and there’s no use getting into it before you’ve had enough of high-flying!” Joy said nothing. It was the same argument she had used for herself. Marriage was not for her, until the wings of her power had grown so that she could soar with that impediment. But Félicie’s case was different. She was in love—supposedly. And Greg’s face—— “Come on and twirl a measure,” said Steve, “if you’re not above mingling with the Too-Much-Perfumed.” “Too-Much-Perfumed?” she echoed as they went out on the floor. “Yes—I always think of that in these places—don’t you get the scent on different couples as they whiff by us? I always think of the common herd as perfuming themselves heavily. So, instead of calling ’em the Great Unwashed, I call ’em the Too-Much-Perfumed.” It was about two when they returned to the Belmont. The girls undressed quickly, saying little. No one brought up the subject of Greg’s harangue. Jerry said that she would sleep with Félicie, so that Joy could have the single room and sleep as late as possible into the day. “I know you’ve got to have sleep back of your voice,” she said, “so go to it, old girl. I’ll make Félicie open one window.” If only Jerry were not such an Excitement-Eater—— By four the next afternoon, Joy had nearly scared herself into a chill. Félicie had gone down to Princeton for a party, but Jerry had remained with her. First, her costume offered trouble. After three changes, she was almost ready to start, when there was a heartsick moment of losing her short gloves. Then a worse moment when she found a rip in them that Jerry repaired with lightning skill. Hesitation over her music which Pa had told her to take indiscriminately, since the great one would select what she pleased to hear. It seemed such a lot to take in one music roll. Finally Jerry bundled her off, going down with her to the door of the waiting car, a dark green Cadillac, such as anyone,—well most anyone—might have. She was driven to the door of a Park Avenue apartment house, where the chauffeur instructed her to go to the top floor. A little maid admitted her to a room beautifully appointed in grey, relieved by sharp touches of black and the inevitable grand piano. Music was piled on the piano in indeterminate heaps; some of it was even trickling off to the floor. Another sheet fell as Joy came into the room, and she went over to pick it up, restoring the others to place as she did so. “Ah, so we have a neat little housewife’s soul, in a singer!”