But the golden day had faded, the perfect moment passed. “We ought to go,” Grant considered. “Mother would think Betty and I weren’t entertaining you very well. Besides, there are some duty dances I’ve got to work off, that mother’s been after me about for a long time.” Joy bowed her head. What was this feeling of impending distress—it must be only that the sun had set! “We’ll get dressed,” said Grant, “and then we can decide whether it’s too late to go or not.” He met her eyes with a twinkle in his. “I dress—very slowly!” “I’ve torn my evening gown—and it will take me a long time to mend it!” Joy returned with a laugh, and they separated. Joy dressed as slowly as she dared. Her head was aching—two days now without her prescription. Was that why she felt so depressed? She had brought the same blue evening dress, and when the work was over, even to her anxious eyes she had never shone more gorgeously. The only question was color. Her face was temporarily red from driving in the wind; but she knew it wouldn’t stay, and it would leave her pale and dragged looking, as she had been lately most of the time. Which was preferable; to put on some rouge and run the risk of looking conspicuously painted until the wind-burn died down, or to omit the rouge and face the certainty of looking ghastly later?—She put on some rouge. When she finally went down, about nine o’clock, Grant was on the piazza. She stood in the doorway and looked at him, as he came towards her. Why couldn’t all boys be like Grant—Grant, with reverence and purity shining in those clear blue eyes—— “I was hoping you’d wear that dress,” he was saying. “It’s the one you wore the first time I ever saw you——” The first time already seemed impossible ages away. “That’s why I wore it,” said Joy, in a matter-of-fact tone. Neither kept the other in doubt by word or look. They looked now—and then, because they were human, they went and ate a fairly good meal from the lunch basket. Now there was no excuse for not starting to the dance—but still they lingered. “I never heard you sing, you know,” said Grant. “Can’t you sing after eating—or will you sing to me before we go?” They went into the music room, where Joy had already sounded out the piano. “Singing right after a meal gives me an excuse for not doing it well,” she smiled, but her fingers trembled as she played a few chords. What if he shouldn’t like it? That would be something she could not bear. Unconsciously music was already a part of herself. It would be so hard to sing to him—the hardest singing she had ever done! “I’ll sing a song called ‘The Unrealized Ideal,’” she said. To most singers it is a handicap to play for themselves, but for Joy, to whom playing was as natural and spontaneous as breathing, it was only an added delight. She could almost hear her heart trembling as she modulated into the song.