She came down a moment later, brown-clad and demure, and looking so young and harmless that any man would have been sure his tilt with her, of the night before, was a dream. She greeted him shyly, with her lashes down. "Isn't--isn't it a little early for you to be away from your patients?" she asked. "My morning office hours are just over, and I'm on my way to make some calls in the car. Want to come?" he asked. "Thank you," said Joy. "That is, if you don't think I'd be in the way." "If I thought you would be I wouldn't have asked you," said Dr. Hewitt matter-of-factly. "So run along and pin up your hair, child. I don't want people to think I've been robbing the cradle." He smiled at her in a brotherly fashion, and Joy began to feel a little ashamed of herself for trying to tease him, even if he didn't seem to see it. She liked him so much, apart from any other feeling, that it was hard to be anything but nice and grateful to him--except when she thought of Gail Maddox. "It just takes two hairpins," she informed him, coming over to him and holding up the ends of her braids. "You wind it round and pin it behind." He took the hairpins and the braids, and quite deftly did as she asked him to. "Hurry, my dear," he said authoritatively, yet with a certain note of affection in his voice that made Joy feel very comforted. As she flew to get her cap her heart gave a queer, pleasant sort of turn-over. His voice made her feel so belonging. She sang as she went, and Phyllis and John smiled across at each other, as over a dear child. "Oh, John, I'm so glad you chose such a darling!" said Phyllis warmly, putting her hands on his shoulders, as "A Perfect Day" floated back to them from above. "You know, Johnny, even the best of men do marry so--so surprisingly. She might have been--" "'She might have been a Roosian, or French or Dutch or Proosian,'" he quoted frivolously. "Well, Phyllis, I'm glad you approve of my--ah--choice. How long do you think it will take it to get its hat on?" "Oh, you can laugh," Phyllis answered him, "but I know you're proud of her, just the same." "Well, she's creditable," said John unemotionally, but with a little smile beginning to show at the corners of his mouth. "I'm ready!" called Joy breathlessly from the top of the stairs, and ran down tumultuously. "Oh, Phyllis, can't I have some roses to take to John's sick people--the poor ones? I want them to like me!" "Help yourself." Phyllis granted promptly. "Not a bit of it." John contradicted her coolly. "You must teach them to love you for yourself alone. Come on, kiddie." He tucked her hand under his arm and hurried her, laughing, down the drive. Phyllis ran after them with a too-late-remembered motor-veil, which she managed to convey into the car by the risky method of tying a stone in it and throwing the stone. It just missed John, and Joy nearly fell out, turning to wave thanks for it.