But she soon learned that he regarded her self-appointed
post of partner with a tender condescension edged with intolerance.
She learned with a tiny shock that although in matters musical he
trusted absolutely to her judgment, he did not consider the feminine
intellect as equal to his own. Music, she discovered, had always
been defined by him as something feminine in its application to the
arts.
She became gradually aware that he objected to her visits to his
office. His glance did not brighten at her entrance. He was not
amused as he had been at first, when she bent over the sketches or
ran her slim fingers along the tracery of blue prints, daring to
question them. Sometimes she had a feeling that she did not entirely
know Oliver; that there were plans of his, thoughts of his, which
she did not share. She had not missed these before when her own life
was full. She had time now during their long hours together to
observe reactions of the cause of which she knew nothing. He was
absent-minded, off on a trail that led away from her.
There came a week when he allowed her the brunt of wooing; a new
dress failed to bring forth the usual compliment; a question lay
unanswered where in pride she left it. Then one morning with a new
crisp note in his voice, he telephoned, telling her that he must
meet a man at his club for dinner that evening.
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