derstand. Oliver is the most wonderful person in
the world. I never thought I could love any one as I love him. And
it's the same with him. But he wants me all to himself." Her hands
fluttered together in nervous appeal. "Can't you see how it is? Since
we've been married we've never been separated a day. And now this
South-American thing has come up, and he's felt--oh, I can't explain.
But I'm so afraid--"

"Afraid of what?"

"It's hard to put into words," she said hopelessly. "I suppose I'm
afraid of losing my happiness. Oliver's right in many ways. He never
does have me to himself; I belong to so many people. It's always
been my life, you know. But I thought I could combine everything
when I married, and I'm beginning to see that it can't be done."

"He knew what your life was," said David.

"Does one ever know?" she said sadly. "This concert, you see, is my
first important appearance since our marriage. And then my going
away right after--"

David strode over to the piano and sat there silent, his head sunk
on his chest, his short arms stiffly before him.

"I realize how absurd it is," she murmured; "but it isn't just those
few months. He trusts me. It's the feeling he has that this is only
a beginning. I know what he means so well," she ended helplessly.
David's short fingers moved over the keys. A music wild and pagan
rose up, filled the room with rhythms of free dancing creatures,
sank to a minor plaint, and broke off on a harsh discord as the
door-bell jangled.

"There's your Oliver," he said, and went to let him in.

It was the day of the concert, and Myra wanted above all to be alone.
She had never felt this way before. She dreaded the evening, dreaded
facing a critical audience; she had fretted herself into a fever
over it. But when she tried to explain her state of mind to Oliver
that morning at breakfast, he would not hear of any prescription for
nerves which did not include his company. Why should she want to be
alone? If she was ill or troubled, his place was beside her. He had
planned to lunch and spend the afternoon with her. Her faintly
irritable "I wish you wouldn't," only wounded and shocked him. Her
strength was not equal to discussion, and in the end she yielded.

For the rest of the morning he followed her about, tenderly opposing
any exertion.

"I must have you at your best to-night, dear," he kept on saying.
"I'm going to be proud of my Myra." He was so eager, wistful, and
loving, s