She had never before so tensely faced an audience, but there was more at stake than she cared to confess, and she was not equal to it.  She shone, but did not blind those thousand eyes; she sang but did not cast enchantment.  And David Cannon would not help her.  He sat at the piano, uncouth, impassive, deliberately detached, as if he gave her and his music over to an anonymous crowd of whose existence he was hardly aware.  There was something huge and static about him, something elemental as an earth-shape, containing in and by itself mysterious rhythms.  His songs were things of faun-like humours, terrible, tender, mocking, compassionate.  They called for an entire abandon, for witchery, for passion swayed and swaying; but although at times Myra’s voice held a Pan-like flutiness, although an occasional note true and sweet as a mate-call stirred that dark fronting mass, she failed to sustain the spell.  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.”