At last it was all over. She wanted only to hide, but she was not to
escape another ordeal. She and Oliver had arranged for a supper
party that evening. To it they had bidden many musical personalities
and several of Oliver's architect friends. She had meant to announce
then the South-American recitals. The prospect of such an
entertainment was now almost unendurable. She knew well what these
people would say and think. Driving home with Oliver, she relaxed
limp against his shoulder, her eyes closed. That haven could at
least always be counted on, she reflected with passionate gratitude.
His voice sounded from a distance as he talked on and on, explaining,
excusing, what he could not honestly ignore. She had worked too hard.
She was tired out. There was the headache, too. But she had sung
wonderfully all the same.
"Please, Oliver!" she faintly interrupted.
"You made the best of it," he insisted. "David's songs, though, are
beyond me."
She sat up very straight at this.
"My dear," she said in a cold voice, "I made a mess of it, and you
know it. There _is_ no excuse. David has every reason to be furious."
"I'd like to see him dare--"
"Please, Oliver!" she said again on a warning note of hysteria.
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