"Look here, John," she went on--and her big voice swept away the polite
convention that the others were not listening, "I've told you that this
won't work and you must see now that that's true. There's still time to
call up March and tell him that it's to-morrow instead of to-day. Because
of Rush and Mary. Won't you let me do that?"

It is just possible that if he had been alone with her, he might have
acknowledged the issue, might have admitted that this new composer whose
works she had been so absorbed in, frightened him, figured in his mind as
the present manifestation of a force that was trying to take her away
from him. And having let her see that, he could safely enough have said,
"Have your own way about it. You know what will work and what won't. Only
make it as easy for me as you can." But in the presence of his
children--it was they, rather than Wallace, that he minded--he was at
once evasive and domineering.

"I thought we'd already disposed of that suggestion," he said. "If the
situation is as it has been made to appear to me there is not the
smallest reason why March should be put off; why Mary and Rush and the
friends we have asked in to meet them, shouldn't be permitted to hear his
songs; or why I shouldn't myself. I think we'll consider that settled."

Paula rose all in one piece. "Very well," she said--to the audience, "it
is settled. Also it's settled that I shall not come down to dinner. As
for what people will think, I'll leave that to you. You can make any
explanation you like. But I shall sing those songs to March--and for
him--for all they're worth. I don't care who else is there or whether
they like it or not.--A lot of patronizing amateurs! Bring them up to the
music room about nine o'clock, if you like. I'll be there."