People fell away easily, leaving her
and Oliver to their chosen isolation. A dozen regrets or so to
invitations, a week or two of evasions over the telephone, a few
friends like Martigues turned away at the door when obviously she
was at home, a refusal to sing at a charity concert and, most
conclusive of all, David Cannon's advertised departure with another
artist, and the thing was virtually done.
Then came a succession of long intimate evenings, she and Oliver
left to their caprice, she and Oliver walking and driving together,
wandering where their fancy took them in the springtime of city and
country. She laughed sometimes at him, he seemed so dazed by the
consciousness of utter possession. "You are sure you are not bored,
darling?" he would often ask these first days. She could not
reassure him enough; could not find ways enough to prove to him that
when a woman like herself gave of body, mind, and spirit, it was a
full giving. There was exquisite pain in that giving; it was almost
a terrifying thing. She was a vital creature, and must spend that
which was hers, wisely or foolishly. Her ceaseless energy had always
before found an outlet in her work. Now her only expression lay in
Oliver. Her mind, never at rest, seized upon his working life, made
it hers.
Pages:
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407