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John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. “What?” He replied. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success.
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