"Bully! But you sing now—like several kinds of seraphs. Warble while I make ready for dinner, Joan."
So Joan sang as she flitted from kitchen to dining room.
"I'll take the high road and you take the low road
And I'll get to Scotland before you——"
she rippled, and Patricia joined in:
"I'll get to Scotland before you!"
Then she said, from the bedroom beyond:
"I know what it is in your singing that gets us, Joan. It's the whole lot more than words can express."
"Of course! That's high art, Pat! Come on, dearie-thing, you must carve."
"Now, Scotland"—Patricia issued forth in a lovely gown and Joan dropped her long apron and appeared a happy reflection of Patricia's magnificence—"Scotland stands for everything your soul wants when you sing. Not a place—but—everything."
"Yes. That's what I feel," Joan replied, quite seriously.