"What do you know about it?"
"I know more than you think I do," he flung at her, frowning.
"You're worried about something, and when you worry, you can't sing.
You're made that way, and I suppose you can't help it. Don't
interrupt yet," he fairly shouted at her as she began to protest.
"I've watched over and taught you for three years. I ought to know."
"I owe you a lot," she said faintly.
"You owe me nothing," he snapped. "Your debt is to yourself."
She could not fend off that merciless look, which went through and through her. "If my debt is to myself, I need pay only if I choose," she tried to jest.
"Don't make that mistake," he warned. "Your work is your life. I tell you that, and I know."
"I wonder," she said more to herself than to him.
He looked at her grimly.
"Just as I thought. Same old question—marriage. You're jealous, or he's jealous of God knows whom or what. And your voice goes to pieces. Which is it?" he demanded. "Is Oliver misbehaving?"
"Of course not," she said indignantly.