They were to give a concert the following month. Her
indifference to the news, she thought drearily, was an indication of
how far she had travelled away from her old life. She did not even
want to see David Cannon.
It was Oliver who brought up the subject that evening.
"David's back. If you'd been with him, how excited I should have
felt to-day!" he remarked. "Odd, isn't it?"
"You would have been in France," she reminded him.
They sat on in silence for a while.
He laid his book aside with a sudden brisk movement.
"Myra, why don't you sing again?"
"For you, to-night?"
"I mean professionally," he blurted out.
She drifted across the room to a shadowy corner.
"I don't know," she said rather flatly, bending over a bowl of white
roses. "I suppose I don't feel like it any more. It's hard to take
things up again."
He fingered his book; then, as if despite himself, he said;
"I'm afraid, dear, that we're letting ourselves grow old."
She swung sharply about, catching her breath.
"You mean I am?"
"Both of us." He was cautious, tender even, but she was not deceived.
It was almost a relief that he had spoken.
"Tell me, dear," she said from her corner. "You're bored, aren't you?
Oh, not with me"--she forestalled his protest--"but just plain bored.
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