else does matter, does it?" she cried suddenly. "Love me a
great deal, Oliver, a great, great deal. That's all I ask."

They drove on in silence for a while. She sat very quiet, her face
half hidden in the high fur collar of her cloak. Now and then she
glanced at Oliver, her eyes wistful.

"Oliver," she said at last, "would it make any difference to you if
I never sang again?"

"Never sang again," he echoed. "I don't understand."

"I want you and my home," came from her slowly. "I've been wondering
for some time how much my singing really meant to me. To-night I
think I've found out. I can't seem to keep everything I started out
with and be happy. I'm not big enough," she added sadly.

He was startled, incredulous.

"Myra, you don't realize what you're saying. You're tired to-night.
I could not let you give up your singing. You are an artist, a big
artist."

She shook her head and sighed.

"I might have been, perhaps; but no, I'm not. David could tell you
that. He knows."

"It's been my fault, then, if you feel this way," he said in a
melancholy voice. "I've been selfish and stupid."

The taxi slowed down before the red-brick entrance of the apartment
house. She put her hand impulsively on his arm.

"Oliver, promise me something."

"Whatever you ask."

"Don't mention South America to any one. You promise?"

"But, Myra----"

"Promise."

"I won't, then. But----"

"I see Walter Mason and Martigues waiting for us," she said quickly.
"Remember, not a word." She was out of the cab, hurrying forward to
greet her guests. Oliver followed, his eyes mutely pleading. But she
seemed her old self again, graciously animated, laughing at Martigues,
who sulked because he did not like the way her hair was done.

Soon other guests arrived, and still others, all of them primed with
compliments carefully prepared.

Last of all came David Cannon, who brushed away flattery with curt
gestures and grunts. He sat heavily down in a corner of the room, a
plate of cheese sandwiches and a frosted glass of beer before him,
and turned an unsociable eye on all intruders. Myra, knowing his mood,
left him alone.

"You are different to-night," Martigues whispered to her. "There is
something I do not understand. You have the Madonna smile."

"I am happy," she said, and her eyes turned to Oliver, who held the
look and gave it back with deeper meaning.

When later Martigues asked her to sing, she glanced again at Oliver,
who no