“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, she could not resent his care.  She gave in to it with a sense of helplessness.

Soon after lunch her head started aching.  She suggested a brisk walk.  The air might do her good.  But he persuaded her to lie down on the couch instead.  The touch of his fingers on her hot forehead was soothing, too soothing.  She relaxed luxuriously, closing her eyes, subdued, indifferent.

He was saying: 

“What will you do, beloved, if you are taken ill in South America?  No Oliver to care for you.  I can’t bear to think of it.”  Suddenly, he laid his cheek against hers.  “If anything happens to you, I shall go mad.”

She sat up with a swift movement that brought back an almost intolerable pain.

“Nothing will happen,” she tried to say, and found herself weakly sobbing in his arms.

It was time to dress.  She did her hair, to please Oliver, in a girlish way, parted and knotted low.  Her gown, designed by Martigues, did not fit in with this simple coiffure.  She was aware of an incongruity between the smooth, yellow bands of hair meekly confining her small head, and the daring peacock-blue draperies flowing in long, free lines from her shoulders, held lightly in at the waist by a golden cord.

“One will get the better of the other before the evening is over,” she thought with a sigh, turning away from her mirror.

“My beautiful Myra!” Oliver said as if to cheer her.

“I have never looked worse,” she retorted a trifle impatiently, and would not argue the point as they drove up town.

“We’ll see what I really amount to now,” she told herself.