“Come in out of the night, Betty Grey,” he added as one of the girls was still hanging over the sill and shrieking back that she had won—“here’s a singer—you’re always saying you never meet any interesting people.”
The waving feet righted themselves, and a brown, eager face turned to Joy. “Oh, are you really a singer?” Betty cried breathlessly. “That’s what’s been the dream of my life—to be a singer—but I can’t even keep on the key! What do you sing?”
“Nothing, yet,” said Joy; “I’m just studying.”
“You ought to hear her sing,” put in Packy. “She’s got everyone I ever heard surrounded.”
Betty fairly wriggled with excitement. “I must hear you! When will you sing for me?”
Joy had no time to expostulate, as the music struck up again and Packy whirled her off.
“Betty’s a crazy kid,” said Packy paternally. “Seems to me a girl between sixteen and eighteen has got absolutely no sense at all. I like ’em when they’ve had enough experience to—well, to be interesting.”
“How much experience does it take to make a girl interesting?” Joy asked.
“Well, it takes a large order, for me. You’ve interested me so far, but the rest, like our little argument, remains to be proved!”
“I’ve noticed,” said Joy, “that nowadays it’s the girl who always has to be interesting and ‘prove something’—the man’s duty seems mainly to sit by and be amused. If she can amuse him, he sticks around; if not, he drifts on to the next and resumes his attitude of expectant passivity. Am I right?”