David Cannon and Miss Maury came late.  Frances was fond of dramatic entrances; she had the stage sense.  Myra hurried forward, aware, as she did so, that her greeting held a maternal note; that Cannon was looking through and through her with those small, relentless eyes of his.  Then Oliver came up, and from the corner of her eyes she saw Frances attach herself to him.  She had known that would happen.

Frances Maury was indeed a lovely creature, vivid, electric, swift, and free of movement, mellow of voice.  She was like a bell.  Touch her and she chimed.  Oliver on one side, Martigues on the other, she made her vivacious way through the room, and was soon surrounded.  Very prettily she moved her court toward Myra, drew Myra into the circle of her warmth with a gracious friendliness.

Martigues, in raptures, explained that it was he who had designed the very modern jewel she wore, a moonstone set in silver.  “Isn’t she adorable!” he kept on repeating.

Oliver had bent over to look at this ornament and was fingering it, his dark head close to hers.  She whispered to him, and he whispered back.  They were already on the best of terms.

David Cannon trod up to Myra.

“What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly.  “Her high notes are not as fine as yours were, but she is improving.  If she doesn’t fall in love, I shall make something of her.”  He frowned at Oliver.

Myra flushed.

“She seems very clever,” was all she could manage.

“I’ll make her sing,” said Cannon, and elbowed a path to her side.  She pouted a little, declared she could never resist him, and moved to the piano.

Myra drew a short breath.  She herself had not intended to sing, but she had hoped that Oliver or David would give her a chance to refuse.  She did not feel angry or envious of this girl, she was incapable of pettiness; but she felt old and dull and lonely.  Her trained smile was her only shield.  She held it while Frances Maury sang.  She did not look at Oliver, but his delight reached her as if she had caused it.  She felt him hovering close to the piano.  She knew how he was standing, how his eyes were shining.  She knew, because as the warm, rich voice rose up, as Cannon’s strange rhythms filled the room with a wild pagan grace, she withdrew into her memory and found there all that went on.  She herself was singing; she stood free and beautiful before them all; she met Oliver’s eyes.

Frances sang again and again.  Oliver led the applause, and Myra sat on, smiling, her steady gaze turned inward.  When it was over, she took Frances by the hand, and it was as if she were thanking herself and bidding that self adieu.

Later in the evening David Cannon came up to her and gruffly suggested that she sing.

She shook her head.

“No, my good friend.”

“Why not?” He stood over her, ugly, masterful.

Her smile softened to a sweet, sad flutter of lip.