“All of which proves,” summed up Betty Sommers, when the fun had died down, “that none of us knows music.”
Davis, the law-man, protested—he had been a growling bass-viol: “Don’t say that. We have merely cultivated virtuosity at the expense of—”
“Skill,” “Music,” “Everything,” he was helped out.
“At the expense of—I demand the floor, Madam Chairman—at the expense of—”
“Our neighbors,” Gorgas put in quietly.
“Good!” cried Davis. “Amendment accepted. Ah! Somnolent and suspicious Mount Airy! This; night’s joy will be chronicled as dissipation, and tongues will wag. Here’s to our neighbors,” and he tossed off a handful of salted almonds.
“We don’t know music,” insisted Blynn, his mind not at all diverted by the clamor; “and we don’t know anything.”
“I arise to protest,” Mary Weston appealed to Mrs. Levering. “This male professor has cast aspersions upon the expensive education we girls have achieved via the instruction imparted at the ‘Misses Warren’s Select French and English School for Young Ladies.’”
Laughter from the girls showed how much they valued this expensive training.
“If I had a catalog here,” Mary persisted, “I could prove to you how thoroughly well we were brung up. ‘You must nevah say, “raised,” my deah young lady,’” Mary was in full swing imitating the elder Miss Warren. “‘Beets are “raised”; turnips and cabbages are “raised”; young ladies are “reahed,” ah! “reahed”!’”