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.
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