fond dominion. She yielded gladly to that
sweet pressure. Strangely enough for a woman of her independent
habits, to be so loved, roused elemental instincts the more powerful
since she had never before given them outlet. So she allowed his
illusions of mastery full play, which was dangerous, as gradually
she altered the delicate balance of their relationship.

A restless month went by. It was February.

Unfortunately, Oliver's work failed to engross him. He grew moodier,
more exacting. If Myra arrived home late, he wanted to know where
she had been, whom she had seen. Were they dining out, he muttered
unsociable objections; were people coming to the house, he
complained of the lack of privacy. What a whirl they lived in! So
they did, but what was the remedy? Myra herself felt helpless in a
tangle of engagements. They overpowered her. She could not seem to
cut her way through them. Then there were rehearsals for the concert.
David Cannon came to her or she went to him nearly every day.
Usually Oliver was present, putting in his opinion between each song.
Did David think the South Americans would appreciate that kind of
music? How did he think they would like Myra? And so on and on.

David Cannon, never patient, a rough-tongued, self-absorbed genius,
resented these interruptions, and was brief in his methods of
expressing as much. Even Myra, the most tactful of diplomatists,
could not smooth over occasional ugly moments between the two men.
She understood Oliver better than he understood himself. His
unreasoning love, his apprehensive vanity, would have unsettled a
less maternal spirit; but she found a kind of mystic wonder in it, he
battled so blindly for possession of her. He was in her way, and she
could not advance without pushing him aside. Had he come to her and
blustered, "You shall not leave me for any purpose whatsoever," she
would have denied him the right of dictation; but there was no such
conflict of wills.

They were both involved in this love of their making--a love whose
demands were treacherous. Each day brought up trivial attacks,
fancied grievances, little fears unavowed; but when she sought to
meet the issue squarely, it eluded her. Oliver's nightly repentance
for his daily whims and suspicions drew her nightly into his arms.
Enfolded there, she felt moored to his love; and, sleepless, she
questioned any life apart.

Two days before the recital, David Cannon, with whom she was going
over the pro