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 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----"