She
stared out of the window at the blur of passing lights. It was
misting; the streets gleamed wet and wan beneath the lamps.
Oliver's arm went around her.
"I'm sorry, dear. Nothing matters, after all, but you and I together,"
he whispered.
"Nothing else does matter, does it?" she cried suddenly. "Love me a
great deal, Oliver, a great, great deal. That's all I ask."
They drove on in silence for a while. She sat very quiet, her face
half hidden in the high fur collar of her cloak. Now and then she
glanced at Oliver, her eyes wistful.
"Oliver," she said at last, "would it make any difference to you if
I never sang again?"
"Never sang again," he echoed. "I don't understand."
"I want you and my home," came from her slowly. "I've been wondering
for some time how much my singing really meant to me. To-night I
think I've found out. I can't seem to keep everything I started out
with and be happy. I'm not big enough," she added sadly.
He was startled, incredulous.
"Myra, you don't realize what you're saying. You're tired to-night.
I could not let you give up your singing. You are an artist, a big
artist."
She shook her head and sighed.
"I might have been, perhaps; but no, I'm not. David could tell you
that.
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