Joy took the hint, and went to pick up her music. All the sweepingly dramatic moments of life seem to have the inglorious aftermath of picking up after oneself. It was a slow process, putting the sheets together, sorting them. When she came to a favorite, or an intriguing bit, she would sit on her feet and play on the glorified instrument that her voice had now become, and amuse herself by letting her voice go off in sky-rockets. It was so that Jim’s ring found her—eyes a warm heliotrope, cheeks in exultant flame, as singing well always left her. He dwelt on her radiance a moment before he spoke. “Joy, that’s ghastly about Félicie—but I’ve been thinking it over—and I know this plastic surgery they used in the war can do something—they say sometimes it makes people better looking than they were before they had to have it done.” “Plastic surgery!” Joy cried. “Yes—Of course, Nature had done so much for Félicie that it might be hard to improve upon what there was before in that case; but they can do a lot. The doctors there have probably got that up their sleeves, and are waiting to see how the cuts heal.” “I must telephone Greg,” Joy flashed; but she paused a moment before going down the hall. Madame Durant’s door was open, and if she saw that Joy had finished her picking up, she might come into the parlor. Once there, she was good for the evening, as Félicie had often warned her. “Jim,” she said softly, “you’re always solving problems for me—aren’t you?” She came up to him, gingerly, and stopped while still a little distance away. Although the fire of song was still spreading its flame within her—she was very sure. But how did one say these things? “Solve just one more for me, Jim—and then we’ll either be through—or just beginning. If—if I needed you—and needed my music too—what—what would be the answer?” “I—I don’t know what you mean, Joy,” he said, all at once very white and intent. “But any answer to a question like that would be—love. I love you—all of you. Your voice, your music is a part of you and I love that too. If—if you needed me—and needed music—you could have both. It’s been done by others. Men are not so conceited nowadays that they imagine they can mean everything to a woman. Does—does that help you in your problems?” “Yes, it does!” she cried, suddenly exultant, “Jim—I need you more than my music, or anything else in this world! Music and love go hand in hand—but now I know—that love always leads the way!” She was in his arms; peace that she had never known was sighing its way into all her being; and an ecstasy born of that peace, that transcended all the beauty of music heard or dreamed. THE END Transcriber’s Notes Obvious printing errors have been silently corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation, spelling and punctuation have been preserved. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dancers in the Dark, by Dorothy Speare