"It isn't a privilege a bit," she said defiantly, out of a clear sky. "It isn't half as much fun as being the kind of girl everybody else is. I hate wearing moving-picture clothes" [not even in her excitement could Joy bring herself to say "movies"] "and I hate never knowing girls and men my own age, and I hate having poems written to me worse than anything at _all_!" Poor Mrs. Harmsworth-Jones! She hadn't done a thing. Her own girls went to fashionable schools and attended sub-deb dances by the score until they came out, which they did at eighteen each like clockwork. She couldn't have been expected to see to it for somebody else's girl, too. Her getting the full blast of it was a quite fortuitous affair, and Joy always felt, looking back afterwards on her explosion, that it had been hard on the lady--who was frightened by it to the point of silence. It must have been very much as if the sedate full-length of Mr. Shakspere, over in the corner and _not_ autographed, had opened its mouth and begun to recite limericks. "Why--why!" she said; and that was all she was capable of saying for the moment. Joy, terrified herself at her deed, turned and fled. What happened between Mrs. Jones and Grandfather she never knew, and never asked. She never halted in her flight till she was safe in her own little eyrie upstairs. There she stopped before her dresser mirror, and looked at the flushed, breathless girl in the glass. "I wonder," Joy said aloud, "what really is the difference between me and other people?" She stared into the glass to see if she couldn't find out, leaning her hands down on the dresser-top. But the pretty white-enamel-framed mirror showed her just the same Joy as ever. Her heavy bronze-gold braids swung forward, and their ends coiled down on the dresser-top. Between them her little pointed face looked straight at her, blue-eyed, red-lipped, and serious. Its owner eyed it perplexedly awhile, then gave up the riddle. "If you look like pictures and poetry you _do_, and that's all there is to it. I suppose living with Grandfather's had an effect on me... I wonder..." Joy still stared steadily into the glass--"I wonder if having somebody in love with me would make a difference. It's the only thing Grandfather's ever said he was willing to have happen to me. He's always talking about 'I would give you up willingly to the first breath of true love....' But there's never anybody comes to his parties you could love with a pair of tongs... I wonder if he _would?_ It would have to be love at first sight, too, I suppose. He doesn't think much of any other kind of love.... But I'd be dreadfully frightened of him.... I hope he'd have blond curly hair!" She lifted herself from her leaning position, and went and curled up on the side of the bed, the better to think.