“What a beautiful singing voice she has, hasn’t she?”
“Who?” asked Eliza, pretending not to understand.
“Why, Miss Fregelius, of course.”
“Oh, well, that is a matter of opinion.”
“Hang it all, Eliza!” said her brother, “there can’t be two opinions about it, she sings like an angel.”
“Do you think so, Stephen? I should have said she sings like an opera dancer.”
“Always understood that their gifts lay in their legs and not in their throats. But perhaps you mean a prima donna,” remarked Stephen reflectively.
“No, I don’t. Prima donnas are not in the habit of screeching at the top of their voices, and then stopping suddenly to make an effect and attract attention.”
“Certainly she has attracted my attention, and I only wish I could hear such screeching every day; it would be a great change.” It may be explained that the Layards were musical, and that each detested the music of the other.
“Really, Stephen,” rejoined Eliza, with sarcasm as awkward as it was meant to be crushing, “I shall have to tell Jane Rose that she is dethroned, poor dear—beaten out of the field by a hymn-tune, a pair of brown eyes, and—a black silk fichu.”