“Surrendered? Just what, exactly?”
“Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl.”
“Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a pugilistic encounter.”
“A horse race!” he exclaimed. “Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it.”
“But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists were chosen for any other reason than that of merit.”
In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner.
“Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things go.” Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and exasperating. “Oh, come, Miss Lane,” he continued, making a desperate effort to recover his patronizing tone, “you know just what we all think of your ability.”
“What do you think of it?” Iola's tone was calmly curious.
“Why, I think—well—I know you can do the work infinitely better than Evelyn Redd.”
“Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard me.”