Cassy turned to Harriet. "What's the matter with Rosie?" she inquired. "I met her on the stairs just now looking as mad as a hatter."
"Oh, she's only in one of her tantrums; she's furious with me at the moment."
Cassy shook her head. "Poor kid, she's half daft at times, I think. You oughtn't to tease her, Harriet."
"Bon Dieu!" exclaimed Harriet, flushing with temper. "I shall forbid her to come here at all if she goes on making these scenes." She pressed a hand to her throat. "It makes my throat ache; I don't believe I've a soupçon of voice left."
She stood up and deliberately tried an ascending scale, while the rest sat silent. Up and up soared the pure, sexless voice, the voice of an undreamt-of choir-boy or an angel; and then, just as the last height was reached, it hazed, it faltered, it failed to attain.
"There you are!" screamed Harriet, forgetting in her agitation how perfectly she could speak French. "What did I tell you? I knew it! That's Rosie's fault, damn her! Damn her! She's probably upset my voice for days to come, and I've got that rehearsal with Stanford to-morrow; my God, it's too awful!"
She paused to try her voice once more, but with the same result. "Where's my inhaler?" she demanded of the room in general.
Milly winked at Cassy as she went into Harriet's bedroom. "Here it is, on your washstand," she called.
Harriet began feverishly to boil up the kettle; she appeared to have completely forgotten Joan and Elizabeth; she spoke in whispers now, addressing all her stifled remarks to Cassy. Milly brought in the inhaler and a bottle of drops; they filled it from the kettle and proceeded to count out the tincture. Harriet sat down heavily with her knees apart; she gripped the ridiculous china bottle in both hands and, applying her lips to the fat glass mouthpiece, proceeded to evoke a series of bubbling, gurgling noises.
Milly drew her sister aside. "You two had better go," she whispered. "Don't try to say good-bye to her; she's in one of her panics, she won't notice your going."