"Don't care about it any more." Val gathered up and crunched the hard scorched grains that had remained in the bottom of the bowl.
"Why not?"
"It's absurd to try to sing just after eating pop-corn."
"Nonsense!" said Emmie. "Grandma's reading old letters in the pack-room, so she won't hear. If you'll put away the corn popper, I'll get the key of the piano."
"It's a great pity not to keep up your music," said Julia, as Emmie went off with the empty bowl. "You'll get hopelessly rusty."
"I shall never sing a note as long as I live," said Val, "and I wish you wouldn't bother me about it before people."
Julia stared at her.
"You ought to understand without my telling you. It kills me to do it half and half. I'll forget I ever wanted to have music in my life."
"You mean, I must never ask you to sing again?"
"It's the one thing about the whole matter that hurts most. You see," Val said, with an effort to speak in a commonplace tone, "I'm not sulking about it, I'm not angry; I've simply wiped off the score."