“I never noticed that and I have overheard her singing a number of times,” persisted Jim. “Now take that thing from _Butterfly_ she is singing now, for instance. She places the difficult intervals with absolute precision. And Puccini’s music is tricky.” “Oh, I never knew you understood music, Mr. Sprague. You never seemed particularly interested in it.” “Why, I have listened to your singing with much pleasure, Mrs. Merwent.” “You couldn’t get away from it,” Nannie laughed. “Come on, John. Shall I sing for you? Mr. Sprague can shut the door if he doesn’t like it!” Nannie passed into the living room, followed by John. Lucy came down stairs. “Well, Jim, are you deserted?” was her question, as she opened the dining room door and saw him there alone. He nodded his head without speaking. “Let’s go in and hear Mamma sing,” she suggested. He hesitated an instant as if about to make some comment, and then followed her. Mrs. Merwent ceased singing and swung around on the piano stool as they entered. “Go on, Mamma. Don’t stop,” Lucy urged, seating herself and indicating a chair to Jim. “Mr. Sprague had rather hear you,” said Nannie. “Nonsense, Mamma. You know I never sing,” protested Lucy, looking embarrassed. “What were you singing?” “It’s a little thing called _Juliet at the Window_.” “There’s to be a revival of _Romeo and Juliet_ at the Standard Theatre next week,” observed John. “Yes. I saw by the papers that that little Hilda Knowlton is going to play Juliet. She’s much too young for the part,” said Nannie. “I don’t see how she well could be,” objected Jim. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Sprague,” began Nannie. “I’ve seen Mary Anderson, and Adelaide Neilson, and Julia Arthur, and Eleanor Robson, and Julia Marlowe, all in the part, and they weren’t young girls in their teens.” “Well, according to the play a young girl in her teens would be exactly suited to the rôle,” answered Jim tenaciously. “I’m sure that’s the first time I ever heard anyone say such a thing,” retorted Nannie. “I’m not the only one who said so.” Jim was smiling but obstinate. “For instance?” demanded Nannie sneeringly. “Shakespeare,” replied Jim. “Nonsense!” Nannie exclaimed irritably. Jim walked to the bookcase and took down a volume of Shakespeare’s plays. “‘Act one, scene three,’” he read. “‘She’s not fourteen. Come Lammas-eve at night, she shall be fourteen.’” “Well, I’ve always thought she was older anyway,” insisted Nannie, “and I’m sure almost everybody thinks so. I’ve never seen a young chit of a girl take the part, and it would generally be considered ridiculous.” “Perhaps Shakespeare didn’t know,” said Jim. “Oh, well, if you want to be sarcastic and nasty about it, we better not discuss it. I suppose you feel very superior and triumphant over having gotten the best of me. I’m sure it makes no difference to me how old Juliet is supposed to be. Of course _you_ never make any mistakes, Mr. Sprague.”