Evangeline. I haven't the remotest idea.
Joyce. I do think Bobbie might write them a little more distinctly, it's awfully difficult to copy.
(Joyce hums.)
Evangeline. I don't wish to appear surly or disagreeable to my younger sister, but if you don't stop squawking I shall hurl something at you.
Joyce. Oh, all right. (She hums louder.)
Evangeline (after a short pause). Joyce, you really are maddening; you know perfectly well that I have to revise and retype an entire short story which in itself is a nerve-racking job, and all you do is to burble and sing, and gabble. Can't you be quiet?
Joyce. Why don't you go and work in your own room?
Evangeline. Because it would be neither comfortable or proper with three inquisitive painters there, running up and down the kitchen steps.
Joyce. Oh, I'd forgotten.
(Joyce hums again.)