“Your voice is young, of course,” said Pa, “and tender. But it will grow. It is bigger to start with than most, but do not be deceived by its volume and think you are a dramatic soprano. You are a lyric; and you shall learn to sing colorature in golden, matched tones. Just now you have no nasal resonance—and not much point. Don’t believe you can run a scale. But your legato is not bad, your high notes are good. Come to-morrow at this time for your first lesson.” He bowed them out, and they stood in the little waiting room while Jerry finished her cigarette and threw it away. They did not speak until they were on a street car bound for home. Then Joy asked Jerry what a lyric soprano was. “Dunno’s I can explain,” said Jerry; “a lyric soprano sings most of the snappy opera—I’ll say you’re in luck. Of course you can do Louise, as he said, and Manon and all the Puccini stuff, and one of your type will sing Rigoletto and Traviata thrown in. Never Aida—that’s for a dramatic and would tear your lungs out. And colorature is super-runs and super-trills—like Melba and Galli-Curci. Do you follow me? If not, I’ll fill in the blanks.” “Jerry,” she asked timidly, after some minutes had gone by; “how do you know about him? I—I wish you’d tell me a little about yourself.” Jerry’s red lips took a downward quirk. When she spoke, it was in a queer voice that sagged and paused. “I will, Joy—sometime when I feel like it. I—I really—am going to. I’ll tell you about Pa now, though. He was a big teacher in New York a few years ago, and only came to Boston to retire. He says coming to Boston in itself is retiring—but he still takes a few pupils. He couldn’t live unless he did—it’s been his life for so long, and he’s so bound up in music. I met him first in New York through a friend of mine who was studying with him. I even studied with him myself, until——Oh, yes, I used to do—a lot of singing.” What had Jerry said at Prom that was faintly reminiscent of this last? “I used to do—a lot of sewing.” And then again: “I used to do—a lot of making-up.” Jerry was what one might call a girl of mystery. The thought was pleasantly exciting. Joy speculated, and silence stayed between them until they descended from the street car in front of the apartment house. A dashing blue Marmon was poised in the road, with Sarah and a youth in the front seat—Sarah now resplendent, cheeks flaring pink under an alluring veil, and dressed in a way to make men look at her and women look at her clothes. She shrieked to them: “Wigs and Davy just went up to leave a note saying we’d come back—come on—we’re going down the Cape somewhere for luncheon and somewhere else for dinner and somewhere else to dance!”