Judith shrugged uneasily.
"That gives me the creeps," she remonstrated. "I don't like it. It sounds like funerals and ghosts——"
Patricia broke in on her dismal forebodings with a rippling, silvery laugh.
"It sounds like wedding bells to me!" she cried, gayly. "You and I don't hear alike, Ju. It sounds like wedding bells, and commencement essays, and checks for stories, and—and—and——"
"What, else?" demanded Judith, whose color had been rising at the alluring forecast. Patricia made a despairing little gesture. "I can't think of anything that will fit poor me," she confessed with mock dejection. "I'm so everlastingly commonplace that I don't sound at all."
"Yes, you do, too!" cried Judith ardently, flinging out a masterpiece. "You sound like a syncopated opera; doesn't she, Bruce?"
Patricia started as the grotesque words sank deep.
"You just wait till I try my real wings," she said with a queer little catch in her throat. "I've forgotten all about my dear music in these three riotous months, but I'll soon be ready to begin again."
"Is your laurel wreath on good and tight, Judy?" asked Bruce with a twinkle. "I'm going to beg Elinor to have hers tied on with nice little blue ribbons. Miss Pat is on the rampage for fame, and it isn't safe to take chances."
Patricia underwent a swift change as she lifted her shining eyes to Bruce's laughing face.