gramme for the last time, turned suddenly from the piano
with an impatient shrug of his shoulders.

"Rotten!" he said brutally, peering up at her. "You're not doing
yourself justice. What's the matter with you?" Beneath the strong,
overhanging brow his little eyes glowered fiercely.

They happened to be alone that afternoon in his great bare studio,
where no soft background or dim lights conspired to hide her
dejection. She had sung badly. She knew it, but she could not answer
such a brusque attack, could not defend herself against harsh
questioning.

"I don't know. Perhaps I'm tired," she said.

David Cannon rose from the piano with the powerful lunging movement
of a bull.

"You tired? Nonsense!" His charge sent him beyond her a pace. He
wheeled and came up close. He was shorter than she, but the sheer
force of the man topped her. His keen little eyes looked her over,
took in her bright, drooping head, and her sloping-shouldered,
slim-waisted health. "Tired!" he grunted. "That's an excuse, not a
reason." He tapped his heart and forehead. "Your troubles lie here
and here."

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 un