“Where have you studied singing?” she demanded, her voice an imperative flick.
“Just a little—at the school I went to,” said Joy. “Why, what’s the matter? I——”
“Your mother must have sung, then, or someone in the family. It’s the sort of voice that sounds as if it had been bred in the family for generations—it has, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, and gotten a little stale in being handed down,” said Joy uncertainly. She was not sure whether Jerry was making fun of her or not. People who thought they could sing were awful bores, and she had no intention of being that sort of a bore.
“I mean it. How long since you’ve done anything with it?”
“I’ve never done anything with it.” Joy was a little impatient by this time. “My teacher was the kind who said ‘Can anything improve upon God?’ So you can get an idea of how hard I worked.”
“Sing something—don’t muffle it up the way you were doing.”
Sarah created a hiatus by stumbling in at that moment. She seemed to be fairly awake by this time, but cross and unlike her usual self. On Jerry’s good-natured “Brace up, old girl,” she turned and almost snarled; “Just because I haven’t got an asbestos lining like some people!”
“That’s your error, old dear,” Jerry retorted. “Stepped through your hat, a while back; guess I’ll take a reef in it while you slap on your kalsomine.”
“I don’t like this college, anyway.” Sarah had moved to the bureau. Her face was positively gray until she started work on it. “I think the way they treat you—the way they do things——”