"Joan is selfish, Nancy quite the reverse." Martin's brows drew together. "Don't be an ass, Bud!"
"What's this Joan doing?"
"Thinking she's gifted," snapped Martin.
"How is she to find out if she doesn't try? Is Miss Fletcher paying for the racket?"
"No. That's the rub. The girl's paying for it herself. Smudging herself doing it, too. A woman can't escape the smudge."
"Oh! well"—Cameron was tiring of it all—"it's when the smudge sticks that counts. If it is only skin deep, it doesn't matter."
"But—a woman, Bud—well, skin matters in a woman."
"Who says so? Oh! chuck it, Uncle Dave. Which shall it be—bed for an hour or a rarebit at Tumbles and then—on to the fight?"
"What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty."