"Your work is your life. I
tell you that, and I know."
"I wonder," she said more to herself than to him.
He looked at her grimly.
"Just as I thought. Same old question--marriage. You're jealous, or
he's jealous of God knows whom or what. And your voice goes to pieces.
Which is it?" he demanded. "Is Oliver misbehaving?"
"Of course not," she said indignantly.
"Humph! Well, he's faithful, you're faithful. You've both got talent,
friends, a home, a profession. What more do you want?"
"There are other--jealousies," she said slowly, and with gathering
passion she went on: "I suppose I owe you some explanation, David,
though you won't understand. Oliver is the most wonderful person in
the world. I never thought I could love any one as I love him. And
it's the same with him. But he wants me all to himself." Her hands
fluttered together in nervous appeal. "Can't you see how it is? Since
we've been married we've never been separated a day. And now this
South-American thing has come up, and he's felt--oh, I can't explain.
But I'm so afraid--"
"Afraid of what?"
"It's hard to put into words," she said hopelessly. "I suppose I'm
afraid of losing my happiness. Oliver's right in many ways. He never
does have me to himself; I belong to so many people.
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