John also felt interrupted.)
But Clarence established himself friendlily in a third chair, and
told Joy with charming masterfulness that she was to put down her
work immediately and listen to him.
"We're going to get up a Gilbert and Sullivan opera," said he. "Now
it stands to reason that we have to have you. I can tell by the
pretty way you speak you have a good stage delivery, and you have
all sorts of presence. Question is, have you a voice? If so, much
honor shall be yours."
"Well, I've had lessons for years, and they say so," offered Joy
modestly. "It's mezzo-soprano--lyric."
Both men looked at her in surprise. People were always being
surprised at things she knew--as if she had ever done anything in
her life but be trained--for no particular purpose, as it had
seemed. And now everything she knew seemed to be going to be useful,
one way or another. Harp lessons, singing lessons, lessons in the
proper way to speak Grandfather's poetry--there had never seemed to
be any particular point to any of them. And now everything was
falling into line.
"Go on," said Clarence. "But I forgot, you said you couldn't dance."
"Only the kind that people do in--bare feet and Greek draperies, and
I hate that," Joy answered deprecatingly.
"You are a Philistine," said Clarence. "But it's attractive."
"One of Grandfather's friends does it for a living, and taught me, as
a token of affection and esteem, she called it.
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