He was in her way, and she
could not advance without pushing him aside. Had he come to her and
blustered, "You shall not leave me for any purpose whatsoever," she
would have denied him the right of dictation; but there was no such
conflict of wills.
They were both involved in this love of their making--a love whose
demands were treacherous. Each day brought up trivial attacks,
fancied grievances, little fears unavowed; but when she sought to
meet the issue squarely, it eluded her. Oliver's nightly repentance
for his daily whims and suspicions drew her nightly into his arms.
Enfolded there, she felt moored to his love; and, sleepless, she
questioned any life apart.
Two days before the recital, David Cannon, with whom she was going
over the programme for the last time, turned suddenly from the piano
with an impatient shrug of his shoulders.
"Rotten!" he said brutally, peering up at her. "You're not doing
yourself justice. What's the matter with you?" Beneath the strong,
overhanging brow his little eyes glowered fiercely.
They happened to be alone that afternoon in his great bare studio,
where no soft background or dim lights conspired to hide her
dejection. She had sung badly. She knew it, but she could not answer
such a brusque attack, could not defend herself against harsh
questioning.
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