The day dragged by.  For the first time in months she found herself wishing that she was going out that evening.  She thought almost guiltily of David Cannon and Frances Maury, imagining herself in Frances’s place.  She went to the piano, tried to sing, and realized with dismay that she was sadly out of practice.  After all, what did it matter? she decided moodily.  Oliver rarely asked her for music.

She took up a novel and dozed over it.

At eleven o’clock Oliver came home.  She knew by the way he opened the front door that the news was good.  She ran to meet him; her dullness vanished.

He took her by the hand and led her into the softly lit room which seemed suddenly warm again with his presence.  Then he whirled her, facing him.  Her smile was a happy reflection of his own brightness.

“You’ll never guess what’s happened,” he began.

“Tell me quickly!” she begged.

He waited a moment, with an eye to dramatic effect.

“Well, then,” he said proudly, “I’ve been appointed on a special committee of reconstruction in France.  Malcolm Wild—­you’ve heard me speak of him—­came down from Washington to-day to propose it to me.  There are six of us on the committee, and I’m the youngest.”

“Oliver!” She put into the exclamation something of what he expected, for he seemed satisfied.  He lifted his head with a young, triumphant gesture.  “It is my chance to do a great and useful work,” he said.  “I needn’t tell you what it means.  I never hoped, I never dreamed of such an honour.”

“I’m so proud of you!” she cried.

He hardly seemed to hear her.

“Think of it, just think of it—­to be invited to go over there with five of the biggest architects here, American money backing us!  We’ve been given a whole section to rebuild; I forget how many villages.  It’s like a dream.”  He passed his hand over his eyes.

“France!” she heard herself saying.  “But, Oliver, it’s the work of months.”

He nodded happily.

“That’s what it is.”

“France!” she murmured in a kind of ecstasy.  “I’m just getting it.”  She clasped her hands together.  “I’ve always wanted to be in France with you.  My dear, when do we start?”

He gave her a swift, bewildered look.

“Why, Myra, didn’t you understand?  I can’t take you right away with me.  Later, of course, you’ll join me.  It won’t be long, a few months at most.”

“I’m not to go when you go?”

Her voice, low and strained, drove straight to his heart.

“Myra, I never thought—­it’s a man’s trip just now, darling.  I—­couldn’t take you with me,” he stammered miserably.  “Passports are almost impossible to get; and then conditions over there——­”

She backed away from him, her arms stiff at her sides.

“When were you—­planning to go?”

He stared at her pitifully.

“Beloved, don’t look at me that way!”