She was too aware of
Oliver leaning forward in his box, applauding louder than any one.
His loyalty would force out of this fastidious audience an ovation
she did not deserve. She would not look his way. "I can't sing," she
thought mournfully.

Had David Cannon shown any annoyance, she might have been goaded on
to a supreme effort; but he avoided her. When once she went up to
him during an intermission and said timidly:

"I'm sorry, David; I'm spoiling everything," he answered
indifferently:

"My songs can stand it."

She wished then that she had not begged Oliver to keep away from her
until the end. She felt lonely and near to tears. As the evening
wore on, lightened by spasmodic applause, she became very quiet. She
even sang better, and felt rather than saw Oliver brighten. But it
was too late; she had lost her audience. There were now gaps in the
earlier unbroken rows; a well-known critic trod softly out; little
nervous coughs and rustlings rose up.

At last it was all over. She wanted only to hide, but she was not to
escape another ordeal. She and Oliver had arranged for a supper
party that evening. To it they had bidden many musical personalities
and several of Oliver's architect friends. She had meant to announce
then the South-American recitals. The prospect of such an
entertainment was now almost unendurable. She knew well what these
people would say and think. Driving home with Oliver, she relaxed
limp against his shoulder, her eyes closed. That haven could at
least always be counted on, she reflected with passionate gratitude.
His voice sounded from a distance as he talked on and on, explaining,
excusing, what he could not honestly ignore. She had worked too hard.
She was tired out. There was the headache, too. But she had sung
wonderfully all the same.

"Please, Oliver!" she faintly interrupted.

"You made the best of it," he insisted. "David's songs, though, are
beyond me."

She sat up very straight at this.

"My dear," she said in a cold voice, "I made a mess of it, and you
know it. There _is_ no excuse. David has every reason to be furious."

"I'd like to see him dare--"

"Please, Oliver!" she said again on a warning note of hysteria. She
stared out of the window at the blur of passing lights. It was
misting; the streets gleamed wet and wan beneath the lamps.

Oliver's arm went around her.

"I'm sorry, dear. Nothing matters, after all, but you and I together,"
he whispered.

"Nothing