She was like a bell. Touch
her and she chimed. Oliver on one side, Martigues on the other, she
made her vivacious way through the room, and was soon surrounded.
Very prettily she moved her court toward Myra, drew Myra into the
circle of her warmth with a gracious friendliness.
Martigues, in raptures, explained that it was he who had designed
the very modern jewel she wore, a moonstone set in silver. "Isn't
she adorable!" he kept on repeating.
Oliver had bent over to look at this ornament and was fingering it,
his dark head close to hers. She whispered to him, and he whispered
back. They were already on the best of terms.
David Cannon trod up to Myra.
"What do you think of her?" he asked abruptly. "Her high notes are
not as fine as yours were, but she is improving. If she doesn't fall
in love, I shall make something of her." He frowned at Oliver.
Myra flushed.
"She seems very clever," was all she could manage.
"I'll make her sing," said Cannon, and elbowed a path to her side.
She pouted a little, declared she could never resist him, and moved
to the piano.
Myra drew a short breath. She herself had not intended to sing, but
she had hoped that Oliver or David would give her a chance to refuse.
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