He looked surprised.
“What good?”
“Look here, Roger, I feel certain that Shem, Ham and Japheth talked this way to their wives on those rainy days in the Ark. It’s not only a pre-glacial point of view, but it’s the most colossally selfish one. All you men are worried about is that we’re not going to be so attractive to make love to. The chase is going to lose its zest—”
I stopped short, cut off by a flood of sound that suddenly burst upon us from the register.
It was a woman’s voice singing Musetta’s song, and by its clearness and volume seemed to be the breath of the register become vocal. We started back simultaneously and looked about the room, while Musetta’s song poured over us, a rich jubilant torrent of melody.
“What is it?” said Roger, rising as if to defend me.
“Miss Harris,” I answered, jumping up.
“Who’s Miss Harris?”
“A singer. She lives here.”
“Does she live in there?” He pointed to the register.