"Voice! You remind me of the fellow that went down to Bowling Green to bowl. They got as much room for voices in musical comedy as a magazine's got for anything besides the advertisin' pages."
"My little sister's got—"
"Can you beat it? 'Voice,' she says. You put your voice in your ankles and waist-line, girl, and it'll get you further. And as for scales like our friend down-stairs, learn to keep the runners out of your silk stockings first. There, give it the Anna Held tilt—there—more—so!"
"Oh-h-h, Ysobel—oh-h-h!"
"Swell, and then some. Who you got to thank? Who steered you right?"
Like a pale-gold aura of moonlight spreading out from behind a black cloud sprang Della's hair against the drooping brim of her hat. She was like a tight-draped, firm-stayed Venus, lyric in every line, her limbs wrapped in an ephod of grace and a skirt that restricted her steps like anklets joined by a too short chain.
"Here, put them white gloves in your bag and save 'em for outside the office doors. Ready?"
"Oh, Ysobel, if my little sister Cottie could only see me now!"
"Don't forget the lines I learnt you last night—two years' experience on Western short circuit—spot-light work, and silent principal—thirty dollars."
"Western short circuit—Western short circuit!"