She did not feel angry or envious of this girl, she was incapable of
pettiness; but she felt old and dull and lonely. Her trained smile
was her only shield. She held it while Frances Maury sang. She did
not look at Oliver, but his delight reached her as if she had caused
it. She felt him hovering close to the piano. She knew how he was
standing, how his eyes were shining. She knew, because as the warm,
rich voice rose up, as Cannon's strange rhythms filled the room with
a wild pagan grace, she withdrew into her memory and found there all
that went on. She herself was singing; she stood free and beautiful
before them all; she met Oliver's eyes.
Frances sang again and again. Oliver led the applause, and Myra sat
on, smiling, her steady gaze turned inward. When it was over, she
took Frances by the hand, and it was as if she were thanking herself
and bidding that self adieu.
Later in the evening David Cannon came up to her and gruffly
suggested that she sing.
She shook her head.
"No, my good friend."
"Why not?" He stood over her, ugly, masterful.
Her smile softened to a sweet, sad flutter of lip.
"You know why."
"Nonsense!"
"You can't bully me any more, David," she told him gently. "That's
the tragic part of it," she added under her breath.
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