He knows."
"It's been my fault, then, if you feel this way," he said in a
melancholy voice. "I've been selfish and stupid."
The taxi slowed down before the red-brick entrance of the apartment
house. She put her hand impulsively on his arm.
"Oliver, promise me something."
"Whatever you ask."
"Don't mention South America to any one. You promise?"
"But, Myra----"
"Promise."
"I won't, then. But----"
"I see Walter Mason and Martigues waiting for us," she said quickly.
"Remember, not a word." She was out of the cab, hurrying forward to
greet her guests. Oliver followed, his eyes mutely pleading. But she
seemed her old self again, graciously animated, laughing at Martigues,
who sulked because he did not like the way her hair was done.
Soon other guests arrived, and still others, all of them primed with
compliments carefully prepared.
Last of all came David Cannon, who brushed away flattery with curt
gestures and grunts. He sat heavily down in a corner of the room, a
plate of cheese sandwiches and a frosted glass of beer before him,
and turned an unsociable eye on all intruders. Myra, knowing his mood,
left him alone.
"You are different to-night," Martigues whispered to her. "There is
something I do not understand.
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