Let's go up to the drawing-room--that is, unless you--" But Joan was already on the stairs, with the chorus of her song.

She didn't feel in the least like sleep with its escape from life.

It was so good to be awake, to be vital, to be tingling with the current of electricity like a telegraph wire.

She flung back the curtains, raised all the windows, opened her arms to the air, spilled her cloak on the floor, sat at the piano and ragged "The Spring Song." "I am a kid," she said, speaking above the sound, and going on with her argument to Alice.

"I am and I will be, I will be.