At the last word she assumed an expression of distrust. "How much work?"
"Two hours a day, perhaps."
"Two hours a day! For how long?"
"A year of it would give you a start."
"Two whole hours out of every day for a year? What do you take me for; a machine?" Scott's nerves quivered with the strident rasp of the voice, like the squawk of a dismayed and indignant hen. "Why, I wouldn't have any time for anything else."
"Some days have as much as twenty-four hours in them," he pointed out. "However, you might make a start with an hour."
"I might," she admitted dubiously, "while I'm in school. But when I get out I want to have some fun. And I'm going to."
"So, it seems this influence which I am supposed to have over you doesn't go very far."
"Now you're disgusted with me again. But I can't help it. I'm not going to be a slave just to be able to sing a little."
"It might be more than a little. And it seems to be the one quality you have which might be susceptible of development."