Judy shook her head. “After all,” she argued, “when you eat, you should enjoy eating, not have to listen—to applaud.”
“Minna,” John addressed his wife, “I think Judy has a point there. Please eat your dinner before it’s utterly spoiled.”
They returned from Mario’s relaxed and gay, Minna still humming some of the melodies. Opening the screen door, a letter fell on the porch. Judy picked it up, quickly glancing at the name of the sender.
“It’s a special delivery from Mr. Crowley, Father, for you.” Her face paled.
Mr. Lurie read it silently while his daughter watched the pained disappointment deepen on his face.
“Judy dear,” he hesitated for a moment then went on quickly as if wishing to have the unhappy business over as fast as possible. “It seems Fran was right. There will be no summer theater,” and he handed her the letter. She read, tears blurring the words. “The backers faded away.... I’m so sorry about your daughter. I know how these kids are, what a disappointment this must be. Tell her next year, cross my heart....”
Judy was desolate. It wasn’t just the disappointment at not having the opportunity to act: that was bad enough. But what would she do with herself in Aspen for a whole summer? The weeks ahead loomed empty and void.
Her parents tried to cheer her up. “There’s a whole new world for you to discover out here,” her father said. “A girl with your curiosity and interests needn’t have a dull moment.”
“And I’m sure there are young people your age in Aspen,” her mother added. “With a little effort, you won’t have any trouble finding companions.”
Judy didn’t argue with them. What was the use? They had tried their best. It wasn’t their fault that Mr. Crowley’s theater had fallen through. “I have to make the best of it,” she said, and added realistically, “Don’t make them miserable.” Then she further cautioned herself, “Assume a virtue, if you have it not.”