She sat up very straight at this.
"My dear," she said in a cold voice, "I made a mess of it, and you know it. There is no excuse. David has every reason to be furious."
"I'd like to see him dare—"
"Please, Oliver!" she said again on a warning note of hysteria. She stared out of the window at the blur of passing lights. It was misting; the streets gleamed wet and wan beneath the lamps.
Oliver's arm went around her.
"I'm sorry, dear. Nothing matters, after all, but you and I together," he whispered.
"Nothing else does matter, does it?" she cried suddenly. "Love me a great deal, Oliver, a great, great deal. That's all I ask."
They drove on in silence for a while. She sat very quiet, her face half hidden in the high fur collar of her cloak. Now and then she glanced at Oliver, her eyes wistful.
"Oliver," she said at last, "would it make any difference to you if
I never sang again?"
"Never sang again," he echoed. "I don't understand."