"I want you and my home," came from her slowly. "I've been wondering for some time how much my singing really meant to me. To-night I think I've found out. I can't seem to keep everything I started out with and be happy. I'm not big enough," she added sadly.
He was startled, incredulous.
"Myra, you don't realize what you're saying. You're tired to-night. I could not let you give up your singing. You are an artist, a big artist."
She shook her head and sighed.
"I might have been, perhaps; but no, I'm not. David could tell you that. He knows."
"It's been my fault, then, if you feel this way," he said in a melancholy voice. "I've been selfish and stupid."
The taxi slowed down before the red-brick entrance of the apartment house. She put her hand impulsively on his arm.
"Oliver, promise me something."
"Whatever you ask."
"Don't mention South America to any one. You promise?"