“No,” Judy answered quickly. “My mother and father. That’s why we’re going to Aspen. Mother’s a singer and Father plays the viola. And they always practice at home—Mother with her accompanist and Father and his quartet—can you imagine what it’s like sometimes?”
“Awful! How can you stand it?”
“You get used to it. Sometimes, I must admit, it’s very nice.”
“Have you a job or something out in Aspen?”
“Not exactly a job, but I—I—er—expect to act—in one of those little summer theaters,” Judy spoke diffidently, but she couldn’t quite conceal her exultation.
Audrey was impressed. “An actress! But you don’t look like one!”
“Well, you know, Audrey, with grease paint and makeup—besides, I probably will have the most minute role,” she smiled with a deprecating little gesture.
Audrey returned to her own problems. “I don’t mind telling you, it is a tragedy for me to leave Omaha.”
Judy was about to inquire what she meant by those solemn words when a big voice boomed behind them.
“You can see the broken-down, deserted cabins halfway up the mountains.”