Her voice thrilled out in the mate-call, grew
fainter and sweeter as winter came on, grew poignant under the cold,
quivered on the last note. As David Cannon ended with the fate theme
of the tree, a genuine shiver went through the little group. There
was no hesitation this time in the applause. They swept forward,
surrounding her, begging her to sing again. But it was to Oliver
that she turned.
"It pleased you? I'm glad."
David Cannon said nothing. He sat, his shoulders hunched, his
fingers on the keys until she had refused to sing again.
"I didn't think you would," he said then, and abruptly left his post
to go back to beer and sandwiches. Soon after he slipped out. Myra
went with him to the hall, where they talked for a while in low
voices. When she came back into the room she was smiling serenely.
She and Oliver were alone at last.
"You glorious creature!" he cried. "I'm so proud of you! Everyone
was crazy about the way you sang." She walked slowly toward him.
"Oliver," she said, "I told David this evening that I wouldn't go to
South America with him."
"You didn't!" His voice rose sharp and shocked.
She nodded, beaming almost mischievously.
"But I did, and nothing will make me change my mind.
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