She tried to smile, with a lift of her eyebrows.

“What do you know about it?”

“I know more than you think I do,” he flung at her, frowning.  “You’re worried about something, and when you worry, you can’t sing.  You’re made that way, and I suppose you can’t help it.  Don’t interrupt yet,” he fairly shouted at her as she began to protest.  “I’ve watched over and taught you for three years.  I ought to know.”

“I owe you a lot,” she said faintly.

“You owe me nothing,” he snapped.  “Your debt is to yourself.”

She could not fend off that merciless look, which went through and through her.  “If my debt is to myself, I need pay only if I choose,” she tried to jest.

“Don’t make that mistake,” he warned.  “Your work is your life.  I tell you that, and I know.”

“I wonder,” she said more to herself than to him.

He looked at her grimly.

“Just as I thought.  Same old question—­marriage.  You’re jealous, or he’s jealous of God knows whom or what.  And your voice goes to pieces.  Which is it?” he demanded.  “Is Oliver misbehaving?”

“Of course not,” she said indignantly.

“Humph!  Well, he’s faithful, you’re faithful.  You’ve both got talent, friends, a home, a profession.  What more do you want?”

“There are other—­jealousies,” she said slowly, and with gathering passion she went on:  “I suppose I owe you some explanation, David, though you won’t understand.  Oliver is the most wonderful person in the world.  I never thought I could love any one as I love him.  And it’s the same with him.  But he wants me all to himself.”  Her hands fluttered together in nervous appeal.  “Can’t you see how it is?  Since we’ve been married we’ve never been separated a day.  And now this South-American thing has come up, and he’s felt—­oh, I can’t explain.  But I’m so afraid—­”

“Afraid of what?”

“It’s hard to put into words,” she said hopelessly.  “I suppose I’m afraid of losing my happiness.  Oliver’s right in many ways.  He never does have me to himself; I belong to so many people.  It’s always been my life, you know.  But I thought I could combine everything when I married, and I’m beginning to see that it can’t be done.”

“He knew what your life was,” said David.

“Does one ever know?” she said sadly.  “This concert, you see, is my first important appearance since our marriage.  And then my going away right after—­”

David strode over to the piano and sat there silent, his head sunk on his chest, his short arms stiffly before him.

“I realize how absurd it is,” she murmured; “but it isn’t just those few months.  He trusts me.  It’s the feeling he has that this is only a beginning.  I know what he means so well,” she ended helplessly.  David’s short fingers moved over the keys.  A music wild and pagan rose up, filled the room with rhythms of free dancing creatures, sank to a minor plaint, and broke off on a harsh discord as the door-bell jangled.