ught a flatness
of tone, and met it with a vigorous profession of faith in his work.
His art was more useful than hers, more enduring. His music was in
stone; hers was no greater than the trilling of a bird. He thought
this over, moved from her embrace, sat erect, and patted his tie.
Well, he summed up, each had a working life converging to a common
end. Let her sing Cannon's songs to South America. Her voice would
reach him. Then let her come back quickly. He could not conceive of
life without her. It would seem strange to be a bachelor again, he
went on, with a sigh meant to be comical. He supposed he would eat at
his club when he was not invited out. He hoped her friends would
take pity on him.

"You mean our friends," she corrected.

"You're the magnet, dear."

"I attracted you," she conceded happily. Then, with a start, she said:
"Do you know what time it is? And we're dining with the Wickeses at
seven."

"I never have you to myself any more," he objected. "If I were an
old-fashioned husband, I should be jealous of every one who sees or
talks to you."

"But you're not an old-fashioned husband," she reminded him.

"I try not to be." He had risen from the couch, and was making his
way to the door, where he paused to look back at her. "Wear the blue
brocade to-night, dear, and do your hair that new way."

"The way Martigues suggested? I thought you didn't like it."

He hesitated only a second.

"It's a bit extreme," he had to confess, "but it suits you."

She came toward him then, laughing.

"You see, you give me over to them."

"I can afford to," he said.

They were late, of course, to the dinner. Despite her effort at
brightness, Oliver felt her graver mood. He watched her with a
shadowy anxiety. Her smile, when her glance sought him out among the
chattering guests, did not entirely reassure him. He had never loved
her more than this evening when she seemed so removed from him, so
easily and brilliantly a guest of honor. What hold had these
strangers on her? They could only misread the superficial sparkle of
her eyes, the gracious movements of her uncovered neck and arms. He
decided then that the blue brocade was too conspicuous. She must not
wear it in South America. And her honey-coloured hair, piled high,
with a fantastic Spanish comb flaring above the topmost curls,
struck him as needlessly theatrical. He blamed Martigues for that.
His humour was not improved by the Basque painter's voluble
co