Diana's hand dropped slowly to her side. She felt stunned. The thing seemed incredible. Less than a week ago she and this man had travelled companionably together in the train, dined at the same table, and together shared the same dreadful menace which had brought death very close to both of them, and now he passed her by with the cool stare of an utter stranger! If he had knocked her down she would hardly have been more astonished.

Moreover, it was not as though her companionship had been forced upon him in the train; he had deliberately sought it. Two people can travel side by side without advancing a single hairsbreadth towards acquaintance if they choose. But he had not so chosen—most assuredly he had not. He had quietly, with a charmingly persuasive insistence, broken through the conventions of custom, and had subsequently proved himself as considerate and as thoughtful for her comfort as any actual friend could have been. More than that, in those moments of tense excitement, immediately after the collision had occurred, she could have sworn that real feeling, genuine concern for her safety, had vibrated in his voice.

And now, just as deliberately, just as composedly as he had begun the acquaintance, so he had closed it.

Diana's cheeks burned with shame. She felt humiliated. Evidently he had regarded her merely as some one with whom it might he agreeable to idle away the tedium of a journey—but that was all. It was obviously his intention that that should be the beginning and the end of it.

In a dream she crossed the road and, opening the gate that admitted to the "church path," made her way home alone. She felt she must have a few minutes to herself before she faced the Rector and Joan at the Rectory mid-day dinner. Fortunately, they were both in ignorance of this amazing, stupefying fact that her fellow-traveller—the "gallant rescuer" about whom Pobs had so joyously chaffed her—had signified in the most unmistakable fashion that he wanted nothing more to do with her, and by the time the dinner-bell sounded, Diana had herself well in hand—so well that she was even able to ask in tones of quite casual interest if any one knew who were the strangers in church that morning?

"Yes, Mowbray told me," replied the Rector. "They are the new people who have taken Red Gables—that pretty little place on the Woodway Road. The girl is Adrienne de Gervais, the actress, and the elderly lady is a Mrs. Adams, her chaperon."

"Oh, then that's why her face seemed so familiar!" exclaimed Diana, a light breaking in upon her. "I mean Miss de Gervais'—not the chaperon's. Of course I must have seen her picture in the illustrated papers dozens of times."

"And the man who was with them is Max Errington, who writes nearly all the plays in which she takes part," chimed in Joan. "He's supposed to be in love with her. That piece of information I acquired from Mrs. Mowbray."

"I detest Mrs. Mowbray," said Diana, with sudden viciousness. "She's the sort of person who has nothing whatever to talk about and spends hours doing it."

The others laughed.

"She's rather a gas-bag, I must admit," acknowledged Stair. "But, you know, a country doctor's wife is usually the emporium for all the local gossip. It's expected of her."

"Then I'm sure Mrs. Mowbray will never disappoint any one. She fully comes up to expectations," observed Diana grimly.

"I suppose we shall have to call on these new people at Red Gables, Dad?" asked Joan, after a brief interval.

Diana bent her head suddenly over her plate to hide the scarlet flush which flew into her cheeks at the suggestion. She would not call upon them—a thousand times no! Max Errington had shown her very distinctly in what estimation he held the honour of her friendship, and he should never have the chance of believing she had tried to thrust it on him.

"Well"—the Rector was replying leisurely to Joan's inquiry—"I understand they are only going to be at Red Gables now and then—when Miss de Gervais wants a rest from her professional work, I expect. But still, as they have come to our church and are strangers in the district, it would perhaps be neighbourly to call, wouldn't it?"

"Can't you call on them, Pobs?" suggested Diana, "A sort of 'rectorial' visit, you know. That would surely be sufficient."

The Sector hesitated.

"I don't know about that, Di. Don't you think it would look rather unfriendly on the part of you girls? Rather snubby, eh?"

That was precisely what Diana, had thought, and the reflection had afforded her no small satisfaction. She wanted to hit back—and hit hard—and now Pobs' kindly, hospitable nature was unconsciously putting the brake on the wheel of retribution.

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference.

"Oh, well, you and Joan can call. I don't think actresses, and authors who love them and write plays for them, are much in my line," she replied distantly.

It would seem as though Joan's dictum that presentiments, like dreams, go by contraries, had been founded upon the rock of experience, for, in truth, Diana's premonition that something delightful was about to happen to her had been fulfilled in a sorry fashion.



CHAPTER VI

THE AFTERMATH OF AN ADVENTURE

Diana awoke with a start. Before sleep had overtaken her she had been lying on a shallow slope of sand, leaning against a rock, with her elbow resting on its flat surface and her book propped up in front of her. Gradually the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves on the shore had lulled her into slumber—the plop as they broke in eddies of creaming foam, and then the sibilant hush-sh-sh—like a long-drawn sigh—as the water receded only to gather itself afresh into a crested billow.

Scarcely more than half awake she sat up and stared about her, dreamily wondering how she came to be there. She felt very stiff, and the arm on which she had been leaning ached horribly. She rubbed it a little, dully conscious of the pain, and as the blood began to course through the veins again, the sharp, pricking sensation commonly known as "pins and needles" aroused her effectually, and she recollected that she had walked out to Culver Point and established herself in one of the numerous little bays that fringed the foot of the great red cliff, intending to spend a pleasant afternoon in company with a new novel. And then the Dustman (idling about until his duties proper should commence in the evening) had come by and touched her eyelids and she had fallen fast asleep.

But she was thoroughly wide awake now, and she looked round her with a rather startled expression, realising that she must have slept for some considerable time, for the sun, which had been high in the heavens, had already dipped towards the horizon and was shedding a rosy track of light across the surface of the water. The tide, too, had come up a long way since she had dozed off into slumber, and waves were now breaking only a few yards distant from her feet.

She cast a hasty glance to right and left, where the arms of the little cove stretched out to meet the sea, strewn with big boulders clothed in shell and seaweed. But there were no rocks to be seen. The grey water was lapping lazily against the surface of the cliff itself and she was cut off on either side.

For a minute or so her heart beat unpleasantly fast; then, with a quick sense of relief, she recollected that only at spring tides was the little bay where she stood entirely under water. There was no danger, she reflected, but nevertheless her position was decidedly unenviable. It was not yet high tide, so it would be some hours at least before she would be able to make her way home, and meanwhile the sun was sinking fast, it was growing unpleasantly cold, and she was decidedly hungry. In the course of another hour or two she would probably be hungrier still, but with no nearer prospect of dinner, while the Rector and Joan would be consumed with anxiety as to what had become of her.

Anxiously she scanned the sea, hoping she might sight some homing fishing-boat which she could hail, but no welcome red or brown sail broke the monotonous grey waste of water, and in hopes of warming herself a little she began to walk briskly up and down the little beach still keeping a sharp look-out at sea for any passing boat.

An interminable hour crawled by. The sun dipped a little lower, flinging long streamers of scarlet and gold across the sea. Far in the blue vault of the sky a single star twinkled into view, while a little sighing breeze arose and whispered of coming night.

Diana shivered in her thin blouse. She had brought no coat with her, and, now that the mist was rising, she felt chilled to the bone, and she heartily anathematised her carelessness for getting into such a scrape.

And then, all at once, across the water came the welcome sound of a human voice:—

"Ahoy! Ahoy there!"

A small brown boat and the figure of the man in it, resting on his oars, showed sharply etched against the background of the sunset sky.

Diana waved her handkerchief wildly and the man waved back, promptly setting the boat with her nose towards the chore and sculling with long, rhythmic strokes that speedily lessened the distance between him and the eager figure waiting at the water's edge.

As he drew nearer, Diana was struck by something oddly familiar in his appearance, and when he glanced back over his shoulder to gauge his distance from the shore, she recognised with a sudden shocked sense of dismay that the man in the boat was none other than Max Errington!

She retreated a few steps hastily, and stood, waiting, tense with misery and discomfort. Had it still been possible she would have signalled to him to go on and leave her; the bare thought of being indebted to him—to this man who had coolly cut her in the street—for escape from her present predicament filled her with helpless rage.

But it was too late. Errington gave a final pull, shipped his oars, and, as the boat rode in on the top of a wave, leaped out on the shore and beached her safely. Then he turned and strode towards Diana, his face wearing just that same concerned, half-angry look that it had done when he found her, shortly after the railway collision, trying to help the woman who had lost her child.

"What in the name of heaven and earth are you doing here?" he demanded brusquely.

Apparently he had entirely forgotten the more recent episode of Easter Sunday and was prepared to scold her roundly, exactly as he had done on that same former occasion. The humour of the situation suddenly caught hold of Diana, and for the moment she, too, forgot that she had reason to be bitterly offended with this man.

"Waiting for you to rescue me—as usual," she retorted frivolously. "You seem to be making quite a habit of it."

He smiled grimly.

"I'm making a virtue of necessity," he flung back at her. "What on earth do your people mean by letting you roam about by yourself like this? You're not fit to be alone! As though a railway accident weren't sufficient excitement for any average woman, you must needs try to drown yourself. Are you so particularly anxious to get quit of this world?"

"Drown myself?" she returned scornfully. "How could I—when the sea doesn't come up within a dozen yards of the cliff except at spring tide?"

"And I suppose it hadn't occurred to you that this is a spring tide?" he said drily. "In another hour or so there'll be six feet of water where we're standing now."

The abrupt realisation that once again she had escaped death by so narrow a margin shook her for a moment, and she swayed a little where she stood, while her face went suddenly very white.

In an instant his arm was round her, supporting her. "I oughtn't to have told you," he said hastily. "Forgive me. You're tired—and, merciful heavens! child, you're half-frozen. Your teeth are chattering with cold."

He stripped off his coat and made as though to help her on with it.

"No—no," she protested. "I shall be quite warm directly. Please put on your coat again."

He shook his head, smiling down at her, and taking first one of her arms, and then the other, he thrust them into the empty sleeves, putting the coat on her as one would dress a child.

"I'm used to having my own way," he observed coolly, as he proceeded to button it round her.

"But you?—" she faltered, looking at the thin silk of his shirt.

"I'm not a lady with a beautiful voice that must be taken care of. What would Signor Baroni say to this afternoon's exploit?"

"Oh, then you haven't forgotten?" Diana asked curiously.

The intensely blue eyes swept over her face.

"No," he replied shortly, "I haven't forgotten."

In silence he helped her into the boat, and she sat quietly in the stern as he bent to his oars and sent the little skiff speeding homewards towards the harbour.

She felt strangely content. The fact that he had deliberately refused to recognise her seemed a matter of very small moment now that he had spoken to her again—scolding her and enforcing her obedience to his wishes in that oddly masterful way of his, which yet had something of a possessive tenderness about it that appealed irresistibly to the woman in her.

Arrived at the quay of the little harbour, he helped her up the steps, slimy with weed and worn by the ceaseless lapping of the water, and the firm clasp of his hand on hers conveyed a curious sense of security, extending beyond just the mere safety of the moment. She had a feeling that there was something immutably strong and sure about this man—a calm, steadfast self-reliance to which one could unhesitatingly trust.

His voice broke in abruptly on her thoughts.

"My car's waiting at the quayside," he said. "I shall drive you back to the Rectory."

Diana assented—not, as she thought to herself with a somewhat wry smile, that it would have made the very slightest difference had she refused point-blank. Since he had decided that she was to travel in his car, travel in it she would, willy-nilly. But as a matter of fact, she was so tired that she was only too thankful to sink back on to the soft, luxurious cushions of the big limousine.

Errington tucked the rugs carefully round her, substituting one of them for the coat she was wearing, spoke a few words to the chauffeur, and then seated himself opposite her.

Diana thought the car seemed to be travelling rather slowly as it began the steep ascent from the harbour to the Rectory. Possibly the chauffeur who had taken his master's instructions might have thrown some light on the subject had he so chosen.

"Quite warm now?" queried Errington.

Diana snuggled luxuriously into her corner.

"Quite, thanks," she replied. "You're rapidly qualifying as a good Samaritan par excellence, thanks to the constant opportunities I afford you."

He laughed shortly and relapsed into silence, leaning his elbow on the cushioned ledge beside him and shading his face with his hand. Beneath its shelter, the keen blue eyes stared at the girl opposite with an odd, thwarted expression in their depths.

Presently Diana spoke again, a tinge of irony in her tones.

"And—after this—when next we meet . . . are you going to cut me again? . . . It must have been very tiresome for you, that an unkind fate insisted on your making my closer acquaintance."

He dropped his hand suddenly.

"Oh, forgive me!" he exclaimed, with a quick gesture of deprecation. "It—it was unpardonable of me . . ." His voice vibrated with some strong emotion, and Diana regarded him curiously.

"Then you meant it?" she said slowly. "It was deliberate?"

He bent his head affirmatively.

"Yes," he replied. "I suppose you think it unforgivable. And yet—and yet it would have been better so."

"Better? But why? I'm generally"—dimpling a little—"considered rather nice."

"'Rather nice'?" he repeated, in a peculiar tone. "Oh, yes—that does not surprise me."

"And some day," she continued gaily, "although I'm nobody just now, I may become a really famous person—and then you might be quite happy to know me!"

Her eyes danced with mirth as she rallied him.

He looked at her strangely.

"No—it can never bring me happiness. . . Ah, mais jamais!" he added, with sudden passion.

Diana was startled.

"It—it was horrid of you to cut me," she said in a troubled voice.

"My punishment lies in your hands," he returned. "When I leave you at the Rectory—after to-day—you can end our acquaintance if you choose. And I suppose—you, will choose. It would be contrary to human nature to throw away such an excellent opportunity for retaliation—feminine human nature, anyway."

He spoke with a kind of half-savage raillery, and Diana winced under it. His moods changed so rapidly that she was bewildered. At one moment there would be an exquisite gentleness in his manner when he spoke to her, at the next a contemptuous irony that cut like a whip.

"Would it be—a punishment?" she asked at last.

He checked a sudden movement towards her.

"What do you suppose?" he said quietly.

"I don't know what to think. If it would be a punishment, why were you so anxious to take it out of my hands? It was you who ended our acquaintance on Sunday, remember."

"Yes, I know. Twice I've closed the door between us, and twice fate has seen fit to open it again."

"Twice? . . . Then—then it was you—in Grellingham Place that day?"

"Yes," he acknowledged simply.

Diana bent her head to hide the small, secret smile that carved her lips.

At last, after a pause—

"But why—why do you not want to know me?" she asked wonderingly.

"Not want to?" he muttered below his breath. "God in heaven! Not want to!" His hand moved restlessly. After a minute he answered her, speaking very gently.

"Because I think you were born to stand in the sunshine. Some of us stand always in the shadow; it creeps about our feet, following us wherever we go. And I would not darken the sunlit places of your life with the shadow that clings to mine."

There was an undercurrent of deep sadness in his tones.

"Can't you—can't you banish the shadow?" faltered Diana. A sense of tragedy oppressed her. "Life is surely made for happiness," she added, a little wistfully.

"Your life, I hope." He smiled across at her. "So don't let us talk any more about the shadow. Only"—gently—"if I came nearer to you—the shadow might engulf you, too." He paused, then continued more lightly: "But if you'll forgive my barbarous incivility of Sunday, perhaps—perhaps I may be allowed to stand just on the outskirts of your life—watch you pass by on your road to fame, and toss a flower at your feet when all the world and his wife are crowding to hear the new prima donna." He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man. It was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.

"I wonder"—he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity—"I wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one? But, no"—he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to reply—"you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around you: 'That flower is the gift of a man—a rough boor of a man—who was atrociously rude to me once. I don't even value it enough to pick it up.' Whereupon every one—quite rightly, too!—would cry shame on the man who had dared to insult so charming a lady—probably adding that if bad luck befell him it would be no more than he deserved! . . . And I've no doubt he'll get his desserts," he added carelessly.

Diana felt the tears very near her eyes and her lip quivered.. This man had the power of hurting her—wounding her to the quick—with his bitter raillery.

When she spoke again her voice shook a little.

"You are wrong," she said, "quite wrong. I should pick up the flower and"—steadily—"I should keep it, because it was thrown to me by a man who had twice done me the greatest service in his power."

Once again he checked, as if by sheer force of will, a sudden eager movement towards her.

"Would you?" he said quickly. "Would you do that? But you would be mistaken; I should be gaining your kindness under false pretences. The greatest service in my power would be for me to go away and never see you again. . . . And, I can't do that—now," he added, his voice vibrating oddly.

His eyes held her, and at the sound of that sudden note of passion in his tone she felt some new, indefinable emotion stir within her that was half pain, half pleasure. Her eyelids closed, and she stretched out her hands a little gropingly, almost as if she were trying to ward away something that threatened her.

There was appeal in the gesture—a pathetic, half-childish appeal, as though the shy, virginal youth of her sensed the distant tumult of awakening passion and would fain delay its coming.

She was just a frank, whole-hearted girl, knowing nothing of love and its strange, inevitable claim, but deep within her spoke that instinct, premonition—call it what you will—which seems in some mysterious way to warn every woman when the great miracle of love is drawing near. It is as though Love's shadow fell across her heart and she were afraid to turn and face him—shrinking with the terror of a trapped wild thing from meeting his imperious demand.

Errington, watching her, saw the childish gesture, the quiver of her mouth, the soft fall of the shadowed lids, and with a swift, impetuous movement he leaned forward and caught her by the arms, pulling her towards him. Instinctively she resisted, struggling in his grip, her eyes, wide and startled, gazing into his.

"Diana!"

The word seemed wrung from him, and as though something within her answered to its note of urgency, she suddenly yielded, stumbling forward on to her knees. His arms closed round her, holding her as in a vice, and she lay there, helpless in his grasp, her head thrown back a little, her young, slight breast fluttering beneath the thin silk of her blouse.

For a moment he held her so, staring down, at her, his breath hard-drawn between his teeth; then swiftly, with a stifled exclamation he stooped his head, kissing her savagely, bruising, crushing her lips beneath his own.

She felt her strength going from her—it seemed as though he were drawing her soul out from her body—and then, just as sheer consciousness itself was wavering, he took his mouth from hers, and she could see his face, white and strained, bent above her.

She leaned away from him, panting a little, her shoulders against the side of the car.

"God!" she heard him mutter.

For a space the throb of the motor was the only sound that broke the stillness, but presently, after what seemed an eternity, he raised her from the floor, where she still knelt inertly, and set her on the seat again. She submitted passively.

When he had resumed his place, he spoke in dry, level tones.

"I suppose I'm damned beyond forgiveness after this?"

She made no answer. She was listening with a curious fascination to the throb of her heart and the measured beat of the engine; the two seemed to meet and mingle into one great pulse, thundering against her tired brain.

"Diana"—he spoke again, still in the same toneless voice—"am I to be forbidden even the outskirts of your life now?"

She moved her head restlessly.

"I don't know—oh, I don't know," she whispered.

She was utterly spent and exhausted. Unconsciously every nerve in her had responded to the fierce passion of that suffocating kiss, and now that the tense moment was over she felt drained of all vitality. Her head drooped listlessly against the cushions of the car and dark shadows stained her cheeks beneath the wide-opened eyes—eyes that held the startled, frightened expression of one who has heard for the first time the beat of Passion's wings.

Gradually, as Errington watched her, the strained look left his face and was replaced by one of infinite solicitude. She looked so young as she lay there, huddled against the cushions—hardly more than a child—and he knew what that mad moment had done for her. It had wakened the woman within her. He cursed himself softly.

"Diana," he said, leaning forward. "For God's sake, say you forgive me, child."

The deep pain in his voice pierced through her dulled, senses.

"Why—why did you do it?" she asked tremulously.

"I did it—oh, because for the moment I forgot that I'm a man barred out from all that makes life worth living! . . . I forgot about the shadow, Diana. . . . You—made me forget."

He spoke with concentrated bitterness, adding mockingly:—

"After all, there's a great deal to be said in favour of the Turkish yashmak. It at least removes temptation."

Diana's hand flew to her lips—they burned still at the memory of those kisses—and he smiled ironically at the instinctive gesture.

"I hate you!" she said suddenly.

"Quite the most suitable thing you could do," he answered composedly. All the softened feeling of a few moments ago had vanished: he seemed to have relapsed into his usual sardonic humour, putting a barrier between himself and her that set them miles apart.

Diana was conscious of a fury of resentment against his calm readjustment of the situation. He was the offender; it was for her to dictate the terms of peace, and he had suddenly cut the ground from under her feet. Her pride rose in arms. If he could so contemptuously sweep aside the memory of the last ten minutes, careless whether his plea for forgiveness were granted or no, she would show him that for her, too, the incident was closed. But she would not forgive him—ever.

She opened her campaign at once.

"Surely we must be almost at the Rectory by now?" she began in politely conventional tones.

A sudden gleam of wicked mirth flashed across his face.

"Has the time, then, seemed so long?" he demanded coolly.

Diana's lips trembled in the vain effort to repress a smile. The man was impossible! It was also very difficult, she found, to remain righteously angry with such an impossible person.

If he saw the smile, he gave no indication of it. Rubbing the window with his hand he peered out.

"I think we are just turning in at the Rectory gates," he remarked carelessly.

In another minute the motor had throbbed to a standstill and the chauffeur was standing at the open door.

"I'm sorry we've been so long coming, sir," he said, touching his hat. "I took a wrong turning—lost me way a bit."

Then as Errington and Diana passed into the house, he added thoughtfully, addressing his engine:—

"She's a pretty little bit of skirt and no mistake. I wonder, now, if we was lost long enough, eh, Billy?"



CHAPTER VII

DIANA SINGS

"I feel that we are very much indebted to you, Mr. Errington," said Stair, when he and Joan had listened to an account of the afternoon's proceedings—the major portion of them, that is. Certain details were not included in the veracious history. "You seem to have a happy knack of turning up just at the moment you are most needed," he added pleasantly.

"I think I must plead indebtedness to Miss Quentin for allowing me such unique opportunities of playing knight errant," replied Max, smiling. "Such chances are rare in this twentieth century of ours, and Miss Quentin always kindly arranges so that I run no serious risks—to life and limb, at least," he added, his mocking eyes challenging Diana's.

She flushed indignantly. Evidently he wished her to understand that that breathless moment in the car counted for nothing—must not be taken seriously. He had only been amusing himself with her—just as he had amused himself by chatting in the train—and again a wave of resentment against him, against the cool, dominating insolence of the man, surged through her.

"I hope you'll stay and join us at dinner," the Rector was saying—"unless it's hopelessly spoilt by waiting so long. Is it, Joan?"

"Oh, no. I think there'll be some surviving remnants," she assured him.

"Then if you'll overlook any discrepancies," pursued Stair, smiling at Errington, "do stay."

"Say, rather, if you'll overlook discrepancies," answered Errington, smiling back—there was something infectious about Stair's geniality. "I'm afraid a boiled shirt is out of the question—unless I go home to fetch it!"

Diana stared at him. Was he really going to stay—to accept the invitation—after all that had occurred? If he did, she thought scornfully, it was only in keeping with that calm arrogance of his by which he allocated to himself the right to do precisely as he chose, irrespective of convention—or of other people's feelings.

Meanwhile Stair was twinkling humorously across at his visitor.

"If you can bear to eat your dinner without being encased in the regulation starch," he said, "I don't think I should advise risking what remains of it by any further delay."

"Then I accept with pleasure," replied Errington.

As he spoke, his eyes sought Diana's once again. It almost seemed as though they pleaded with her for understanding. The half-sad, half-bitter mouth smiled faintly, the smile accentuating that upward curve at the corners of the lips which lent such an unexpected sweetness to its stern lines.

Diana looked away quickly, refusing to endorse the Rector's invitation, and, escaping to her own room, she made a hasty toilet, slipping into a simple little black gown open at the throat. Meanwhile, she tortured herself with questioning as to why—if all that had passed meant nothing to him—he had chosen to stay. Once she hid her burning face in her hands as the memory of those kisses rushed over her afresh, sending little, new, delicious thrills coursing through her veins. Then once more the maddening doubt assailed her—were they but a bitter humiliation which she would remember for the rest of her life?

When she came downstairs again, Max Errington and Stair were conversing happily together, evidently on the best of terms with themselves and each other. Errington was speaking as she entered the room, but he stopped abruptly, biting his words off short, while his keen eyes swept over the slim, black-gowned figure hesitating in the doorway.

"Mr. Stair has been pledging your word during your absence," he said. "He has promised that you'll sing to us after dinner."

"I? Oh"—nervously—"I don't think I want to sing this evening."

"Why not? Have the"—he made an infinitesimal pause, regarding her the while with quizzical eyes—"events of the afternoon robbed you of your voice?"

Diana gave him back his look defiantly. How dared he—oh, how dared he?—she thought indignantly.

"My adventures weren't serious enough for that," she replied composedly.

The ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

"Then you will sing?" he persisted.

"Yes, if you like."

He nodded contentedly, and as they went in to dinner he whispered:—

"I found the adventure—rather serious."

Dinner passed pleasantly enough. Errington and Stair contributed most of the conversation, the former proving himself a charming guest, and it was evident that the two men had taken a great liking to each other. It would have been a difficult subject indeed who did not feel attracted by Alan Stair; he was so unconventionally frank and sincere, brimming over with humour, and he regarded every man as his friend until he had proved him otherwise—and even then he was disposed to think that the fault must lie somewhere in himself.

"I'm not surprised that your church was so full on Sunday," Errington told him, "now that I've met you. If the Church of England clergy, as a whole, were as human as you are, you would have fewer offshoots from your Established Church. I always think"—reminiscently—"that that is where the strength of the Roman Catholic padre lies—in his intense humanness."

The Sector looked up in surprise.

"Then you're not a member of our Church?" he asked.

For a moment Errington looked embarrassed, as though he had said more than he wished to.

"Oh, I was merely comparing the two," he replied evasively. "I have lived abroad a good bit, you know."

"Ah! That explains it, then," said Stair. "You've caught some little foreign turns of speech. Several times I've wondered if you were entirely English."

Errington's face, as he turned to reply, wore that politely blank expression which Diana had encountered more than once when conversing with him—always should she chance to touch on any subject the natural answer to which might have revealed something of the man's private life.

"Oh," he answered the Rector lightly, "I believe there's a dash of foreign blood in my veins, but I've a right to call myself an Englishman."

After dinner, while the two men had their smoke, Diana, heedless of Joan's common-sense remonstrance on the score of dew-drenched grass, flung on a cloak and wandered restlessly out into the moonlit garden. She felt that it would be an utter impossibility to sit still, waiting until the men came into the drawing-room, and she paced slowly backwards and forwards across the lawn, a slight, shadowy figure in the patch of silver light.

Presently she saw the French window of the dining-room open, and Max Errington step across the threshold and come swiftly over the lawn towards her.

"I see you are bent on courting rheumatic fever—to say nothing of a sore throat," he said quietly, "and I've come to take you indoors."

Diana was instantly filled with a perverse desire to remain where she was.

"I'm not in the least cold, thank you," she replied stiffly, "And—I like it out here."

"You may not be cold," he returned composedly. "But I'm quite sure your feet are damp. Come along."

He put his arm under hers, impelling her gently in the direction of the house, and, rather to her own surprise, she found herself accompanying him without further opposition.

Arrived at the house, he knelt down and, taking up her foot in his hand, deliberately removed the little pointed slipper.

"There," he said conclusively, exhibiting its sole, dank with dew. "Go up and put on a pair of dry shoes and then come down and sing to me."

And once again she found herself meekly obeying him.

By the time she had returned to the drawing-room, Pobs and Errington were choosing the songs they wanted her to sing, while Joan was laughingly protesting that they had selected all those with the most difficult accompaniments.

"However, I'll do my best, Di," she added, as she seated herself at the piano.

Joan's "best" as a pianist did not amount to very much at any time, and she altogether lacked that intuitive understanding and sympathy which is the sine qua non of a good accompanist. Diana, accustomed to the trained perfection of Olga Lermontof, found herself considerably handicapped, and her rendering of the song in question, Saint-Saens' Amour, viens aider, left a good deal to be desired in consequence—a fact of which no one was more conscious than she herself.

But the voice! As the full rich notes hung on the air, vibrant with that indescribably thrilling quality which seems the prerogative of the contralto, Errington recognised at once that here was a singer destined to make her mark. The slight surprise which he had evinced on first learning that she was a pupil of the great Baroni vanished instantly. No master could be better fitted to have the handling of such a voice—and certainly, he added mentally, Joan Stair was a ludicrously inadequate accompanist, only to be excused by her frank acknowledgment of the fact.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Di," she said at the conclusion of the song. "But I really can't manage the accompaniment."

Errington rose and crossed the room to the piano.

"Will you allow me to take your place?" he said pleasantly. "That is, if Miss Quentin permits? It is hard lines to be suddenly called upon to read accompaniments if you are not accustomed to it."

"Oh, do you play?" exclaimed Joan, vacating her seat gladly. "Then please do. I feel as if I were committing murder when I stumble through Diana's songs."

She joined the Rector at the far end of the room, adding with a smile:—

"I make a much better audience than performer."

"What shall it be?" said Errington, turning over the pile of songs.

"What you like," returned Diana indifferently. She was rather pale, and her hand shook a little as she fidgeted restlessly with a sheet of music. It almost seemed as though the projected change of accompanist were distasteful to her.

Max laid his own hand over hers an instant.

"Please let me play for you," he said simply.

There was a note of appeal in his voice—rather as if he were seeking to soften her resentment against him, and would regard the permission to accompany her as a token of forgiveness. She met his glance, wavered a moment, then bent her head in silence, and each of them was conscious that in some mysterious way, without the interchange of further words, an armistice had been declared between them.

With Errington at the piano the music took on a different aspect. He was an incomparable accompanist, and Diana, feeling herself supported, and upborne, sang with a beauty of interpretation, an intensity of feeling, that had been impossible before. And through it all she was acutely conscious of Max Errington's proximity—knew instinctively that the passion of the song was shaking him equally with herself. It was as though some intangible live wire were stretched between them so that each could sense the emotion of the other—as though the garment with which we so persistently conceal our souls from one another's eyes were suddenly stripped away.

There was a tense look in Max's face as the last note trembled into silence, and Diana, meeting his glance, flushed rosily.

"I can't sing any more," she said, her voice uneven.

"No."

He added nothing to the laconic negative, but his eyes held hers remorselessly.

Then Pobs' cheerful tones fell on their ears and the taut moment passed.

"Di, you amazing child!" he exclaimed delightfully. "Where did you find a voice like that? I realise now that we've been entertaining genius unawares all this time. Joan, my dear, henceforth two commonplace bodies like you and me must resign ourselves to taking a back seat."

"I don't mind," returned Joan philosophically. "I think I was born with a humdrum nature; a quiet life was always my idea of bliss."

"Sing something else, Di," begged Stair. But Diana shook her head.

"I'm too tired, Pobs," she said quietly. Turning abruptly to Errington she continued: "Will you play instead?"

Max hesitated a moment, then resumed his place at the piano, and, after a pause, the three grave notes with which Rachmaninoff's wonderful "Prelude" opens, broke the silence.

It was speedily evident that Errington was a musician of no mean order; indeed, many a professional reputation has been based on a less solid foundation. The Rachmaninoff was followed by Chopin, Tchaikowsky, Debussy, and others of the modern school, and when finally he dropped his hands from the piano, laughingly declaring that he must be thinking of taking his departure before he played them all to sleep, Joan burst out bluntly:—

"We understood you were a dramatist, Mr. Errington. It seems to me you have missed your vocation."

Every one laughed.

"Rather a two-edged compliment, I'm afraid, Joan," chuckled Stair delightfully.

Joan blushed, overcome with confusion, and remained depressed until Errington, on the point of leaving, reassured her good-humouredly.

"Don't brood over your father's unkind references to two-edged compliments, Miss Stair. I entirely decline to see any but one meaning to your speech—and that a very pleasant one."

He shook hands with the Rector and Diana, holding the latter's hand an instant longer than was absolutely necessary, to ask, rather low:—

"Is it peace, then?"

But the softening spell of the music was broken, and Diana felt her resentment against him rise up anew.

Silently she withdrew her hand, refusing him an answer, defying him with a courage born of the near neighbourhood of the Rector and Joan, and a few minutes later the hum of his motor could be heard as it sped away down the drive.

Diana lay long awake that night, her thoughts centred round the man who had come so strangely into her life. It was as though he had been forced thither by a resistless fate which there was no eluding—for, on his own confession, he had deliberately sought to avoid meeting her again.

His whole attitude was utterly incomprehensible—a study of violently opposing contrasts. Diana felt bruised and shaken by the fierce contradictions of his moods, the temperamental heat and ice which he had meted out to her. It seemed as if he were fighting against the attraction she had for him, prepared to contest every inch of ground—discounting each look and word wrung from him in some moment of emotion by the mocking raillery with which he followed it up.

More than once he had hinted at some barrier, spoken of a shadow that dogged his steps, as if complete freedom of action were denied him. Could it be—was it conceivable, that he was already married? And at the thought Diana hid hot cheeks against her pillow, living over again that moment in the car—that moment which had suddenly called into being emotions before whose overmastering possibilities she trembled.

At length, mentally and physically weary, she dropped into an uneasy slumber, vaguely wondering what the morrow would bring forth.

It brought the unexpected news that the occupants of Red Gables had suddenly left for London by the morning train.



CHAPTER VIII

MRS. LAWRENCE'S HOSPITALITY

"An Officer's Widow offers hospitality to students and professional women. Excellent cuisine; man-servant; moderate terms. Apply: Mrs. L., 24 Brutton Square, N.W."

So ran the advertisement which Mrs. Lawrence periodically inserted in one of the leading London dailies. She was well-pleased with the wording of it, considering that it combined both veracity and attractiveness—two things which do not invariably run smoothly in conjunction with each other.

The opening phrase had reference to the fact that her husband, the defunct major, had been an army doctor, and the word hospitality pleasantly suggested the idea of a home from home, whilst the afterthought conveyed by the moderate terms delicately indicated that the hospitality was not entirely of a gratuitous nature. The man-servant, on closer inspection, resolved himself into a French-Swiss waiter, whose agility and condition were such that he could negotiate the whole ninety stairs of the house, three at a time, without once pausing for breath till he reached the top.

Little Miss Bunting, the lady-help, who lived with Mrs. Lawrence on the understanding that she gave "assistance in light household duties in return for hospitality," was not quite so nimble as Henri, the waiter, and often found her heart beating quite uncomfortably fast by the time she had climbed the ninety stairs to the little cupboard of a room which Mrs. Lawrence's conception of hospitality allotted for her use. She did the work of two servants and ate rather less than one, and, seeing that she received no wages and was incurably conscientious, Mrs. Lawrence found the arrangement eminently satisfactory. Possibly Miss Bunting herself regarded the matter with somewhat less enthusiasm, but she was a plucky little person and made no complaint. As she wrote to her invalid mother, shortly after taking up her duties at Brutton Square: "After all, dearest of little mothers, I have a roof over my head and food to eat, and I'm not costing you anything except a few pounds for my clothes. And perhaps when I leave here, if Mrs. Lawrence gives me a good reference, I shall be able to get a situation with a salary attached to it."

So Miss Bunting stuck to her guns and spent her days in supplementing the deficiencies of careless servants, smoothing the path of the boarders, and generally enabling Mrs. Lawrence to devote much more time to what she termed her "social life" than would otherwise have been the case.

The boarders usually numbered anything from twelve to fifteen—all of the gentler sex—and were composed chiefly of students at one or other of the London schools of art or music, together with a sprinkling of visiting teachers of various kinds, and one or two young professional musicians whose earnings did not yet warrant their launching out into the independence of flat life. This meant that three times a year, when the schools closed for their regular vacations, a general exodus took place from 24 Brutton Square, and Mrs. Lawrence was happily enabled to go away and visit her friends, leaving the conscientious Miss Bunting to look after the reduced establishment and cater for the one or two remaining boarders who were not released by regular holidays. It was an admirable arrangement, profitable without being too exigeant.

At the end of each vacation Mrs. Lawrence always summoned Miss Bunting to her presence and ran through the list of boarders for the coming term, noting their various requirements. She was thus occupied one afternoon towards the end of April. The spring sunshine poured in through the windows, lending an added cheerfulness of aspect to the rooms of the tall London house that made them appear worth quite five shillings a week more than was actually charged for them, and Mrs. Lawrence smiled, well satisfied.

She was a handsome woman, still in the early forties, and the word "stylish" inevitably leaped to one's mind at the sight of her full, well-corseted figure, fashionable raiment, and carefully coiffured hair. There was nothing whatever of the boarding-house keeper about her; in fact, at first sight, she rather gave the impression of a pleasant, sociable woman who, having a house somewhat larger than she needed for her own requirements, accepted a few paying guests to keep the rooms aired.

This was just the impression she wished to convey, and it was usually some considerable time before her boarders grasped the fact that they were dealing with, a thoroughly shrewd, calculating business woman, who was bent on making every penny out of them that she could, compatibly with running the house on such lines as would ensure its answering to the advertised description.

"I'm glad it's a sunny day," she remarked to Miss Bunting. "First impressions are everything, and that pupil of Signor Baroni's, Miss Quentin, arrives to-day. I hope her rooms are quite ready?"

"Quite, Mrs. Lawrence," replied the lady-help. "I put a few flowers in the vases just to make it look a little home-like."

"Very thoughtful of you, Miss Bunting," Mrs. Lawrence returned graciously. "Miss Quentin's is rather a special case. To begin with, she has engaged a private sitting-room, and in addition to that she was recommended to come here by Signor Baroni himself."

The good word of a teacher of such standing as Baroni was a matter of the first importance to a lady offering a home from home to musical students, though possibly had Mrs. Lawrence heard the exact form taken by Baroni's recommendation she might have felt less elated.

"The Lawrence woman is a bit of a shark, my dear," he had told Diana, when she had explained that, owing to the retirement from business of her former landlady, she would be compelled after Easter to seek fresh rooms. "But she caters specially for musical students, and as she is therefore obliged to keep the schools pleased, she feeds her boarders, on the whole, better than do most of her species. And remember, my dear Mees Quentin, that good food, and plenty of good food, means—voice."

So Diana had nodded and written to Mrs. Lawrence to ask if a bed-room and sitting-room opening one into the other could be at her disposal, receiving an affirmative reply.

"Regarding coals, Miss Bunting," proceeded Mrs. Lawrence thoughtfully, "I told Miss Quentin that the charge would be sixpence per scuttle." (This was in pre-war times, it must be remembered, and the scuttles were of painfully meagre proportions.) "It might be as well to put that large coal-box in her room—you know the one I mean—and make the charge eightpence."

The box in question was certainly of imposing exterior proportions, but its tin lining was of a quite different domestic period and made no pretensions as to fitting. It lay loosely inside its sham mahogany casing like the shrivelled kernel of a nut in its shell.

"The big coal-scuttle really doesn't hold twopenny-worth more coal than the others," observed Miss Bunting tentatively.

A dull flush mounted to Mrs. Lawrence's cheek. She liked the prospect of screwing an extra twopence out of one of her boarders, but she hated having the fact so clearly pointed out to her. There were times when she found Miss Bunting's conscientiousness something of a trial.

"It's a much larger box," she protested sharply.

"Yes. I know it is—outside. But the lining only holds two more knobs than the sixpenny ones."

Mrs. Lawrence frowned.

"Do I understand that you—you actually measured the amount it contains?" she asked, with bitterness.

"Yes," retorted Miss Bunting valiantly. "And compared it with the others. It was when you told me to put the eightpenny scuttle in Miss Jenkins' room. She complained at once."

"Then you exceeded your duties, Miss Bunting. You should have referred Miss Jenkins to me."

Miss Bunting made no reply. She had acted precisely in the way suggested, but Miss Jenkins, a young art-student of independent opinions, had flatly declined to be "referred" to Mrs. Lawrence.

"It's not the least use, Bunty dear," she had said. "I'm not going to have half an hour's acrimonious conversation with Mrs. Lawrence on the subject of twopennyworth of coal. At the same time I haven't the remotest intention of paying twopence extra for those two lumps of excess luggage, so to speak. So you can just trot that sarcophagus away, like the darling you are, and bring me back my sixpenny scuttle again."

And little Miss Bunting, in her capacity of buffer state between Mrs. Lawrence and her boarders, had obeyed and said nothing more about the matter.

"I have to go out now," continued Mrs. Lawrence, after a pause pregnant with rebuke. "You will receive Miss Quentin on her arrival and attend to her comfort. And put the large coal-box in her sitting-room as I directed," she added firmly.

So it came about that when, half an hour later, a taxi-cab buzzed up to the door of No. 24, with Diana and a large quantity of luggage on board, the former found herself met in the hall by a cheerful little person with pretty brown eyes and a friendly smile to whom she took an instant liking.

Miss Bunting escorted Diana up to her rooms on the second floor, while Henri brought up the rear, staggering manfully beneath the weight of Miss Quentin's trunk.

A cheerful fire was blazing in the grate, and that, together with the daffodils that gleamed from a bowl on the table like a splash of gold, gave the room a pleasant and welcoming appearance.

"But, surely," said Diana hesitatingly, "you are not Mrs. Lawrence?"

Miss Bunting laughed, outright.

"Oh, dear no," she answered. "Mrs. Lawrence is out, and she asked me to see that you had everything you wanted. I'm the lady-help, you know."

Diana regarded her commiseratingly. She seemed such a jolly, bright little thing to be occupying that anomalous position.

"Oh, are you? Then it was you"—with a sudden, inspiration—"who put these lovely daffodils here, wasn't it? . . . Thank you so much for thinking of it—it was kind of you." And she held out her hand with the frank charm of manner which invariably turned Diana's acquaintances into friends inside ten minutes.

Little Miss Bunting flushed delightedly, and from that moment onward became one of the new boarder's most devoted adherents.

"You'd like some tea, I expect," she said presently. "Will you have it up here—or in the dining-room with the other boarders in half an hour's time?"

"Oh, up here, please. I can't possibly wait half an hour."

"I ought to tell you," Miss Bunting continued, dimpling a little, "that it will be sixpence extra if you have it up here. 'All meals served in rooms, sixpence extra,'" she read out, pointing to the printed list of rules and regulations hanging prominently above the chimney-piece.

Diana regarded it with amusement.

"They ought to be written on tablets of stone like the Ten Commandments," she commented frivolously. "It rather reminds me of being at school again. I've never lived in a boarding-house before, you know; I had rooms in the house of an old servant of ours. Well, here goes!"—twisting the framed set of rules round with its face to the wall. "Now, if I break the laws of the Medes and Persians I can't be blamed, because I haven't read them."

Miss Bunting privately thought that the new boarder, recommended by so great a personage as Signor Baroni, stood an excellent chance of being allowed a generous latitude as regards conforming to the rules at No. 24—provided she paid her bills promptly and without too careful a scrutiny of the "extras." Bunty, indeed, retained few illusions concerning her employer, and perhaps this was just as well—for the fewer the illusions by which you're handicapped, the fewer your disappointments before the journey's end.

"You haven't told me your name," said Diana, when the lady-help reappeared with a small tea-tray in her hand.

"Bunting," came the smiling reply. "But most of the boarders call me Bunty."

"I shall, too, may I?—And oh, why haven't you brought two cups? I wanted you to have tea with me—if you've time, that is?"

"If I had brought a second cup, 'Tea, for two' would have been charged to your account," observed Miss Bunting.

"What?" Diana's eyes grew round with astonishment. "With the same sized teapot?"

The other nodded humorously.

"Well, Mrs. Lawrence's logic is beyond me," pursued Diana. "However, we'll obviate the difficulty. I'll have tea out of my tooth-glass"—glancing towards the washstand in the adjoining room where that article, inverted, capped the water-bottle—"and you, being the honoured guest, shall luxuriate in the cup."

Bunty modestly protested, but Diana had her own way in the matter, and when finally the little lady-help went downstairs to pour out tea in the dining-room for the rest of the boarders, it was with that pleasantly warm glow about the region of the heart which the experience of an unexpected kindness is prone to produce.

Meanwhile Diana busied herself unpacking her clothes and putting them away in the rather limited cupboard accommodation provided, and in fixing up a few pictures, recklessly hammering the requisite nails into the walls in happy disregard of Rule III of the printed list, which emphatically stated that: "No nails must be driven into the walls without permission."

By the time she had completed these operations a dressing-bell sounded, and quickly exchanging her travelling costume for a filmy little dinner dress of some soft, shimmering material, she sallied downstairs in search of the dining-room.

Mrs. Lawrence met her on the threshold, warmly welcoming, and conducting her to her allotted place at the lower end of a long table, around which were seated—as it appeared to Diana in that first dizzy moment of arrival—dozens of young women varying from twenty to thirty years of age. In reality there were but a baker's dozen of them, and they all painstakingly abstained from glancing in her direction lest they might be thought guilty of rudely staring at a newcomer.

Diana's vis-a-vis at table was the redoubtable Miss Jenkins of coal-box fame, and her neighbours on either hand two students of one of the musical colleges. Next to Miss Jenkins, Diana observed a vacant place; presumably its owner was dining out. She also noticed that she alone among the boarders had attempted to make any kind of evening toilet. The others had "changed" from their workaday clothes, it is true, but a light silk blouse, worn with a darker skirt, appeared to be generally regarded as a sufficient recognition of the occasion.

Diana's near neighbours were at first somewhat tongue-tied with a nervous stiffness common to the Britisher, but they thawed a little as the meal progressed, and when the musical students, Miss Jones and Miss Allen, had elicited that she was actually a pupil of the great Baroni, envy and a certain awed admiration combined to unseal the fountains of their speech.

Just as the fish was being removed, the door opened to admit a tall, thin woman, wearing outdoor costume, who passed quickly down the room and took the vacant place at the table, murmuring a curt apology to Mrs. Lawrence on her way. To Diana's astonishment she recognised in the newcomer Olga Lermontof, Baroni's accompanist.

"Miss Lermontof!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea that you lived here."

Miss Lermontof nodded a brief greeting.

"How d'you do? Yes, I've lived here for some time. But I didn't know that you were coming. I thought you had rooms somewhere?"

"So I had. But I was obliged to give them up, and Signor Baroni suggested this instead."

"Hope you'll like it," returned Miss Lermontof shortly. "At any rate, it has the advantage of being only quarter of an hour's walk from Grellingham Place. I've just come from there." And with that she relapsed into silence.

Although Olga Lermontof had frequently accompanied Diana during her lessons with Baroni, the acquaintance between the two had made but small progress. There had been but little opportunity for conversation on those occasions, and Diana, instinctively resenting the accompanist's cool and rather off-hand manner, had never sought to become better acquainted with her. It was generally supposed that she was a Russian, and she was undoubtedly a highly gifted musician, but there was something oddly disagreeable and repellent about her personality. Whenever Diana had thought about her at all, she had mentally likened her to Ishmael, whose hand was against every man and every man's hand against his. And now she found herself involved with this strange woman in the rather close intimacy of daily life consequent upon becoming fellow-boarders in the same house.

Seen amidst so many strange faces, the familiarity of Olga Lermontof's clever but rather forbidding visage bred a certain new sense of comradeship, and Diana made several tentative efforts to draw her into conversation. The results were meagre, however, the Russian confining herself to monosyllabic answers until some one—one of the musical students—chanced to mention that she had recently been to the Premier Theatre to see Adrienne de Gervais in a new play, "The Grey Gown," which had just been produced there.

It was then that Miss Lermontof apparently awoke to the fact that the English language contains further possibilities than a bare "yes" or "no."

"I consider Adrienne de Gervais a most overrated actress," she remarked succinctly.

A chorus of disagreement greeted this announcement.

"Why, only think how quickly she's got on," argued Miss Jones. "No one three years ago—and to-day Max Errington writes all his plays round her."

"Precisely. And it's easy enough to 'create a part' successfully if that part has been previously written specially to suit you," retorted Miss Lermontof unmoved.

The discussion of Adrienne de Gervais' merits, or demerits, threatened to develop into a violent disagreement, and Diana was struck by a certain personal acrimony that seemed to flavour Miss Lermontof's criticism of the popular actress. Finally, with the idea of averting a quarrel between the disputants, she mentioned that the actress, accompanied by her chaperon, had been staying in the neighbourhood of her own home.

"Mr. Errington was with them also," she added.

"He usually is," commented Miss Lermontof disagreeably.

"He's a remarkably fine pianist," said Diana. "Do you know him personally at all?"

"I've met him," replied Olga. Her green eyes narrowed suddenly, and she regarded Diana with a rather curious expression on her face.

"Is he a professional pianist?" pursued Diana. She was conscious of an intense curiosity concerning Errington, quite apart from the personal episodes which had linked them together. The man of mystery invariably exerts a peculiar fascination over the feminine mind. Hence the unmerited popularity not infrequently enjoyed by the dark, saturnine, brooding individual whose conversation savours of the tensely monosyllabic.

Olga Lermontof paused a moment before replying to Diana's query. The she said briefly:—

"No. He's a dramatist. I shouldn't allow myself to become too interested in him if I were you."

She smiled a trifle grimly at Diana's sudden flush, and her manner indicated that, as far as she was concerned, the subject was closed.

Diana felt an inward conviction that Miss Lermontof knew much more concerning Max Errington than she chose to admit, and when she fell asleep that night it was to dream that she and Errington were trying to find each other through the gloom of a thick fog, whilst all the time the dark-browed, sinister face of Olga Lermontof kept appearing and disappearing between them, smiling tauntingly at their efforts.



CHAPTER IX

A CONTEST OF WILLS

Diana was sitting in Baroni's music-room, waiting, with more or less patience, for a singing lesson. The old maestro was in an unmistakable ill-humour this morning, and he had detained the pupil whose lesson preceded her own far beyond the allotted time, storming at the unfortunate young man until Diana marvelled that the latter had sufficient nerve to continue singing at all.

In a whirl of fury Baroni informed him that he was exactly suited to be a third-rate music-hall artiste—the young man, be it said, was making a special study of oratorio—and that it was profanation, for any one with so incalculably little idea of the very first principles of art to attempt to interpret the works of the great masters, together with much more of a like explosive character. Finally, he dismissed him abruptly and turned to Diana.

"Ah—Mees Quentin." He softened a little. He had a great affection for this promising pupil of his, and welcomed her with a smile. "I am seek of that young man with his voice of an archangel and his brains of a feesh! . . . So! You haf come back from your visit to the country? And how goes it with the voice?"

"I expect I'm a bit rusty after my holiday," she replied diplomatically, fondly hoping to pave the way for more lenient treatment than had been accorded to the luckless student of oratorio.

Unfortunately, however, it chanced to be one of those sharply chilly days to which May occasionally treats us. Baroni frankly detested cold weather—it upset both his nerves and his temper—and Diana speedily realised that no excuses would avail to smooth her path on this occasion.

"Scales," commanded Baroni, and struck a chord.

She began to sing obediently, but at the end of the third scale he stopped her.

"Bah! It sounds like an elephant coming downstairs! Be-r-r-rump . . . be-r-r-rump . . . be-r-r-rump . . . br-r-rum! Do not, please, sing as an elephant walks."

Diana coloured and tried again, but without marked success. She was genuinely out of practice, and the nervousness with which Baroni's obvious ill-humour inspired her did not mend matters.

"But what haf you been doing during the holidays?" exclaimed the maestro at last, his odd, husky voice fierce with annoyance. "There is no ease—-no flexibility. You are as stiff as a rusty hinge. Ach! But you will haf to work—not play any more."

He frowned portentously, then with a swift change to a more reasonable mood, he continued:—

"Let us haf some songs—Saint-Saens' Amour, viens aider. Perhaps that will wake you up, hein?"

Instead, it carried Diana swiftly back to the Rectory at Crailing, to the evening when she had sung this very song to Max Errington, with the unhappy Joan stumbling through the accompaniment. She began to sing, her mind occupied with quite other matters than Delilah's passion of vengeance, and her face expressive of nothing more stirring than a gentle reminiscence. Baroni stopped abruptly and placed a big mirror in front of her.

"Please to look at your face, Mees Quentin," he said scathingly. "It is as wooden as your singing."

He was a confirmed advocate of the importance of facial expression in a singer, and Diana's vague, abstracted look was rapidly raising his ire. Recalled by the biting scorn in his tones, she made a gallant effort to throw herself more effectually into the song, but the memory of Errington's grave, intent face, as he had sat listening to her that night, kept coming betwixt her and the meaning of the music—and the result was even more unpromising than before.

In another moment Baroni was on his feet, literally dancing with rage.

"But do you then call yourself an artiste?" he broke out furiously. "Why has the good God given you eyes and a mouth? That they may express nothing—nothing at all? Bah! You haf the face of a gootta-per-r-rcha doll!"

And snatching up the music from the piano in an uncontrollable burst of fury, he flung it straight at her, and the two of them stood glaring at each other for a few moments in silence. Then Baroni pointed to the song, lying open on the floor between them, and said explosively:—

"Pick that up."

Diana regarded him coolly, her small face set like a flint.

"No." She fairly threw the negative at him,

He stared at her—he was accustomed to more docile pupils—and the two girls who had remained in the room to listen to the lessons following their own huddled together with scared faces. The maestro in a royal rage was ever, in their opinion, to be regarded from much the same viewpoint as a thunderbolt, and that any one of his pupils should dare to defy him was unheard-of. In the same situation as that in which Diana found herself, either of the two girls in question would have meekly picked up the music and, dissolving into tears, made the continuance of the lesson an impossibility, only to be bullied by the maestro even more execrably next time.

"Pick that up," repeated Baroni stormily.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," retorted Diana promptly. "You threw it there, and you can pick it up. I'm going home." And, turning her back upon him, she marched towards the door.

A sudden twinkle showed itself in Baroni's eyes. With unaccustomed celerity he pranced after her.

"Come back, little Pepper-pot, come back, then, and we will continue the lesson."

Diana turned and stood hesitating.

"Who's going to pick up that music?" she demanded unflinchingly.

"Why, I will, thou most obstinate child"—suiting the action to the word. "Because it is true that professors should not throw music at their pupils, no matter"—maliciously—"how stupid nor how dull they may be at their lesson."

Diana flushed, immediately repentant.

"I'm sorry," she acknowledged frankly. "I was being abominably inattentive; I was thinking of something else."

The little scene was characteristic of her—unbendingly determined and obstinate when she thought she was wronged and unjustly treated, impulsively ready to ask pardon when she saw herself at fault.

Baroni patted her hand affectionately.

"See, my dear, I am a cross-grained, ugly old man, am I not?" he said placidly.

"Yes, you are," agreed Diana, to the awed amazement of the other two pupils, at the same time bestowing a radiant smile upon him.

Baroni beamed back at her benevolently.

"So! Thus we agree—we are at one, as master and pupil should be. Is it not so?"

Diana nodded, amusement in her eyes.

"Then, being agreed, we can continue our lesson. Imagine yourself, please, to be Delilah, brooding on your vengeance, gloating over what you are about to accomplish. Can you not picture her to yourself—beautiful, sinister, like a snake that winds itself about the body"—his voice fell to a penetrating whisper—"and, in her heart, dreaming of the triumph that shall bring Samson at last a captive to destruction?"

Something in the tense excitement of his whispering tones struck an answering chord within Diana, and oblivious for the moment of all else except Delilah's passionate thirst for vengeance, she sang with her whole soul, so that when she ceased, Baroni, in a sudden access of artistic fervour, leapt from his seat and embraced her rapturously.

"Well done! That is, true art—art and intelligence allied to the voice of gold which the good God has given you."

Absorbed in the music, neither master nor pupil had observed that during the course of the song the door had been softly unlatched from outside and held ajar, and now, just as Diana was somewhat blushingly extricating herself from Baroni's fervent clasp, it was thrown open and the unseen listener came into the room.

Baroni whirled round and advanced with outstretched hands, his face wreathed in smiles.

"A la bonne heure! You haf come just at a good moment, Mees de Gervais, to hear this pupil of mine who will some day be one of the world's great singers."

Adrienne de Gervais shook hands.

"I've been listening, Baroni. She has a marvellous voice. But"—looking at Diana pleasantly—"we are neighbours, surely? I have seen you in Crailing—where we have just taken a house called Red Gables."

"Yes, I live at Crailing," replied Diana, a little shyly.

"And I saw you, there one day—you were sitting in a pony-trap, waiting outside a cottage, and singing to yourself. I noticed the quality of her voice then," added Miss de Gervais, turning to the maestro.

"Yes," said Baroni, with placid content. "It is superb."

Adrienne turned back to Diana with a delightful smile.

"Since we are neighbours in the country, Miss Quentin, we ought to be friends in town. Won't you come and see me one day?"

Diana flushed. She was undoubtedly attracted by the actress's charming personality, but beyond this lay the knowledge that it was more than likely that at her house she might again encounter Errington. And though Diana told herself that he was nothing to her—in fact, that she disliked him rather than otherwise—the chance of meeting him once more was not to be foregone—if only for the opportunity it would give her of showing him how much she disliked him!

"I should like to come very much," she answered.

"Then come and have tea with me to-morrow—no, to-morrow I'm engaged. Shall we say Thursday?"

Diana acquiesced, and Miss de Gervais turned to Baroni with a rather mischievous smile, saying something in a foreign tongue which Diana took to be Russian. Baroni replied in the same language, frowningly, and although she could not understand the tenor of his answer, Diana was positive that she caught her own name and that of Max Errington uttered in conjunction with each other.

It struck her as an odd coincidence that Baroni should be acquainted both with Miss de Gervais and with Errington, and at her next lesson she ventured to comment on the former's visit. Baroni's answer, however, furnished a perfectly simple explanation of it.

"Mees de Gervais? Oh, yes, she sings a song in her new play, 'The Grey Gown,' and I haf always coached her in her songs. She has a pree-ty voice—nothing beeg, but quite pree-ty."

Diana set forth on her visit to Adrienne with a certain amount of trepidation. Much as she longed to see Max Errington again, she felt that the first meeting after that last episode of their acquaintance might well partake of the somewhat doubtful pleasure of skating on thin ice.

It was therefore not without a feeling of relief that she found the actress and her chaperon the only occupants of the former's pretty drawing-room. They both welcomed her cordially.

"I have heard so much about you," said Mrs. Adams, pleasantly, "that I've been longing to meet you, Miss Quentin. Adrienne calls you the 'girl with the golden voice,' and I'm hoping to have the pleasure of hearing you sing."

Diana was getting used to having her voice referred to as something rather wonderful; it no longer embarrassed her, so she murmured an appropriate answer and the conversation then drifted naturally to Crailing and to the lucky chance which had brought Errington past Culver Point the day Diana was marooned there, and Diana explained that the Rector and his daughter had intended calling upon the occupants of Red Gables, but had been prevented by their sudden departure.

Adrienne laughed.

"Yes, I expect every one thought we were quite mad to run away like that so soon after our arrival! It was a sudden idea of Mr. Errington's. He declared he was not satisfied about something in the staging of 'The Grey Gown,' and of course we must needs all rush up to town to see about it. There wasn't the least necessity, as it turned out, but when Max takes an idea into his head there's no stopping him."

"No," added Mrs. Adams. "And the sheer cruelty of bustling an elderly person like me from one end of England to the other just to suit his whims doesn't seem to move him in the slightest."

She was smiling broadly as she spoke, and, it was evident to Diana that to both these women Max Errington's word was law—a law they obeyed, however, with the utmost cheerfulness.

"But, of course, we are coming back again," pursued Miss de Gervais. "I think Crailing is a delightful little place, and I am going to regard Red Gables as a haven of refuge from the storms of professional life. So I hope"—smilingly—"that the Rectory will call on Red Gables when next we are 'in residence.'"

The time passed quickly, and when tea was disposed of Adrienne looked out from amongst her songs one or two which were known to Diana, and Mrs. Adams was given the opportunity of hearing the "golden voice."

And then, just as Diana was preparing to leave, a maid threw open a door and announced:—

"Mr. Errington."

Diana felt her heart contract suddenly, and the sound of his voice, as he greeted Adrienne and Mrs. Adams, sent a thrill through every nerve in her body.

"You mustn't go now." She was vaguely conscious that Adrienne was speaking to her. "Max, here is Miss Quentin, whom you gallantly rescued from Culver Point."

The actress was dimpling and smiling, a spice of mischief in her soft blue eyes. She and Mrs. Adams had not omitted to chaff Errington about his involuntary knight-errantry, and the former had even laughingly declared it her firm belief that his journey to town the next day partook more of the nature of flight than anything else. To all of which Errington had submitted composedly, declining to add anything further to his bare statement of the incident of Culver Point—mention of which had been entailed by his unexpected absence from Red Gables that evening.

He gave a scarcely perceptible start of surprise as his eyes fell upon Diana, but he betrayed no pleasure at seeing her again. His face showed nothing beyond the polite, impersonal interest which any stranger might exhibit.

"I have just missed the pleasure of hearing you sing, I'm afraid," he said, shaking hands. "Have you been back in town long, Miss Quentin?"

"No, only a few days," she answered. "I had my first lesson with Signor Baroni the other day, and it was then that I met Miss de Gervais."

"At Baroni's?" Diana intercepted a swift glance pass between him and Adrienne.

"Yes," said the latter quickly. "I went to rehearse my song in 'The Grey Gown' with him. He was rather crochety that day," she added, smiling.

Diana smiled in sympathy.

"Well, if he was crochety with you, Miss de Gervais," she observed, "you can perhaps imagine what he was like to me!"

"Was he so very bad?" asked Adrienne, laughing. "Every one says his temper is diabolical."

"It is," replied Diana, with conviction.

"Still," broke in Errington's quiet voice, "I should have thought he would have found it somewhat difficult to be very angry with Miss Quentin."

Diana fancied she detected the familiar flavour of irony in the cool tones.

"On the contrary, he apparently found it perfectly simple," she retorted sharply.

"And yet," interposed Adrienne, "from the panegyrics he indulged in upon the subject of your voice after you had gone, I'm sure he thinks the world of you."

"Oh, I'm just a voice to him—nothing more," said Diana.

"To be 'just a voice' to Baroni means to be the most important thing on earth," observed Errington. "I believe he would imperil his immortal soul to give a supremely beautiful voice to the world."

"Nonsense, Max," protested Adrienne. "You talk as if he were perfectly conscienceless."

"So he is, except in so far as art is concerned, and then his conscience assumes the form of sheer idolatry. I believe he would sacrifice anything and anybody for the sake of it."

"Well, it's to be hoped you're wrong," said Adrienne, smiling, and again Diana thought she detected a glance of mutual understanding pass between the actress and Max Errington.

A little uncomfortable sense as of being de trop invaded her. She felt that for some reason Errington would be glad when she had gone. Possibly he had come to see Miss de Gervais about some business matter in connection with the play he had written, and was only awaiting her departure to discuss it. He had not appeared in the least pleased to find her there on his arrival, and from that moment onward the conversation had become distinctly laboured.

She wished very much that Miss de Gervais had not pressed her to stay when he came, and at the first opportunity she rose to go. This time, Adrienne made no effort to detain her, although she asked her cordially to come again another day.

As Diana drove back in a taxi to Brutton Square she was conscious of a queer sense of disappointment in the outcome of her meeting with Max Errington. It had been so utterly different from anything she had expected—quite commonplace and ordinary, exactly as though they had been no more than the most casual acquaintances.

She hardly knew what she had actually anticipated. Certainly, she told herself irritably, she could not have expected him to have treated her with marked warmth of manner in the presence of others, and therefore his behaviour had been just what the circumstances demanded. But, notwithstanding the assurance she gave herself that this was the common-sense view to take of the matter, she had an instinctive feeling that, even had there been no one else to consider, Errington's manner would still have shown no greater cordiality. For some reason he had decided to lock the door on the past, and the polite friendly indifference with which he had treated her was intended to indicate quite clearly the attitude he proposed to adopt.

She supposed he repented that brief, vivid moment in the car, and wished her to understand that it held no significance—that it was merely a chance incident in this world where one amuses oneself as occasion offers. Presumably he feared that, not being a woman of the world, she might attach a deeper meaning to it than the circumstances warranted, and was anxious to set her right on that point.

Her pride rose in revolt. Olga Lermontof's words returned to her mind with fresh enlightenment: "I shouldn't allow myself to become too interested in him, if I were you." Surely she had intended this as a friendly warning to Diana not to take anything Max Errington might do or say very seriously!

Well, there would be no danger of that in the future; she had learned her lesson and would take care to profit by it.



CHAPTER X

MISS LERMONTOF'S ADVICE

As Diana entered the somewhat dingy hall at 34 Brutton Square on her return from visiting Adrienne, the first person she encountered was Olga Lermontof. She still retained her dislike of the accompanist and was preparing to pass by with a casual remark upon the coldness of the weather, when something in the Russian's pale, fatigued face arrested her.

"How frightfully tired you look!" she exclaimed, pausing on the staircase as the two made their way up together.

"I am, rather," returned Miss Lermontof indifferently. "I've been playing accompaniments all afternoon, and I've had no tea."

Diana hesitated an instant, then she said impulsively—"Oh, do come into my room and let me make you a cup."

Olga Lermontof regarded her with a faint surprise.

"Thanks," she said in her abrupt way. "I will."

A cheerful little fire was burning in the grate, and the room presented a very comfortable and home-like appearance, for Diana had added a couple of easy-chairs and several Liberty cushions to its somewhat sparse furniture. A heavy curtain, hung in front of the door to exclude draughts, gave an additional cosy touch, and fresh flowers adorned both chimney-piece and table.

Olga Lermontof let her long, lithe figure down into one of the easy-chairs with a sigh of satisfaction, while Diana set the kettle on the fire to boil, and produced from the depths of a cupboard a canister of tea and a tin of attractive-looking biscuits.

"I often make my own tea up here," she observed. "I detest having it in that great barrack of a dining-room downstairs. The bread-and-butter is always so thick—like doorsteps!—and the cake is very emphatically of the 'plain, home-made' variety."

Olga nodded.

"You look very comfortable here," she replied. "If you saw my tiny bandbox of a room on the fourth floor you'd realise what a sybarite you are."

Diana wondered a little why Olga Lermontof should need to economise by having such a small room and one so high up. She was invariably well-dressed—Diana had frequently caught glimpses of silken petticoats and expensive shoes—and she had not in the least the air of a woman who is accustomed to small means.

Almost as though she had uttered her thought aloud, Miss Lermontof replied to it, smiling rather satirically.

"You're thinking I don't look the part? It's true I haven't always been so poor as I am now. But a lot of my money is invested in Ru—abroad, and owing to—to various things"—she stammered a little—"I can't get hold of it just at present, so I'm dependent on what I make. And an accompanist doesn't earn a fortune, you know. But I can't quite forego pretty clothes—I wasn't brought up that way. So I economise over my room."

Diana was rather touched by the little confidence; somehow she didn't fancy the other had found it very easy to make, and she liked her all the better for it.

"No," she agreed, as she poured out two steaming cups of tea. "I suppose accompanying doesn't pay as well as some other things—the stage, for example. I should think Adrienne de Gervais makes plenty of money."

"She has private means, I believe," returned Miss Lermontof. "But, of course, she gets an enormous salary."

She was drinking her tea appreciatively, and a little colour had crept into her cheeks, although the shadows still lay heavily beneath her light-green eyes. They were of a curious translucent green, the more noticeable against the contrasting darkness of her hair and brows; they reminded one of the colour of Chinese jade.

"I've just been to tea with Miss de Gervais," volunteered Diana, after a pause.

A swift look of surprise crossed Olga Lermontof's face.

"I didn't know you had met her," she said slowly.

"Yes, we met at Signor Baroni's the other day. She came in during my lesson. I believe I told you she had taken a house at Crailing, so that at home we are neighbours, you see."

"Miss Lermontof consumed a biscuit in silence. Then she said abruptly:—

"Miss Quentin, I know you don't like me, but—well, I have an odd sort of wish to do you a good turn. You had better have nothing to do with Adrienne de Gervais."

Diana stared at her in undisguised amazement, the quick colour rushing into her face as it always did when she was startled or surprised.

"But—but why?" she stammered.

"I can't tell you why. Only take my advice and leave her alone."

"But I thought her delightful," protested Diana. "And"—wistfully—"I haven't many friends in London."

"Miss de Gervais isn't quite all she seems. And your art should be your friend—you don't need any other."

Diana laughed.

"You talk like old Baroni himself! But indeed I do want friends—I haven't nearly reached the stage when art can take the place of nice human people."

Miss Lermontof regarded her dispassionately.

"That's only because you're young—horribly young and warm-hearted."

"You talk as if you yourself were a near relation of Methuselah!"—laughing.

"I'm thirty-five," returned Olga, "And that's old enough to know that nine-tenths of your 'nice human people' are self-seeking vampires living on the generosity of the other tenth. Besides, you have only to wait till you come out professionally and you can have as many so-called friends as you choose. You'll scarcely need to lift your little finger and they'll come flocking round you. I don't think"— looking at her speculatively—"that you've any conception what your voice is going to do for you. You see, it isn't just an ordinary good voice—it's one of the exceptional voices that are only vouchsafed once or twice in a century."

"Still, I think I should like to have a few friends—now. My friend, I mean—not just the friends of my voice!"—with a smile.

"Well, don't include Miss de Gervais in the number—or Max Errington either."

She watched Diana's sudden flush, and shrugging her shoulders, added sardonically:—

"I suppose, however, it's useless to try and stop a marble rolling down hill. . . . Well, later on, remember that I warned you."

Diana stared into the fire for a moment in silence. Then she asked with apparent irrelevance:—

"Is Mr. Errington married?"

"He is not." Diana's heart suddenly sang within her.

"Nor," continued Miss Lermontof keenly, "is there any likelihood of his ever marrying."

The song broke off abruptly.

"I should have thought," said Diana slowly, "that he was just the kind of man who would marry. He is"—with a little effort—"very delightful."

Miss Lermontof got up to go.

"You have a saying in England: All is not gold that glitters. It is very good sense," she observed.

"Do you mean"—Diana's eyes were suddenly apprehensive—"do you mean that he has done anything wrong—dishonourable?"

"I think," replied Olga Lermontof incisively, "that it would be very dishonourable of him if he tried to—to make you care for him."

She moved towards the door as she spoke, and Diana followed her.

"But why—why do you tell me this?" she faltered.

The Russian's queer green eyes held an odd expression as she answered:—

"Perhaps it's because I like you very much better than you do me. You're one of the few genuine warm-hearted people I've met—and I don't want you to be unhappy. Good-bye," she added carelessly, "thank you for my tea."

The door closed behind her, and Diana, returning to her seat by the fire, sat staring into the flames, puzzling over what she had heard.

Miss Lermontof's curious warning had frightened her a little. She apparently possessed some intimate knowledge of the affairs both of Max Errington and Adrienne de Gervais, and what she knew did not appear to be very favourable to either of them.

Diana had intuitively felt from the very beginning of her acquaintance with Errington that there was something secret, something hidden, about him, and in a way this had added to her interest in him. It had seized hold of her imagination, kept him vividly before her mind as nothing else could have done, and now Olga Lermontof's strange hints and innuendos gave a fresh fillip to her desire to know in what way Max Errington differed from his fellows.

"It would be dishonourable of him to make you care," Miss Lermontof had said.

The words seemed to ring in Diana's ears, and side by side with them, as though to add a substance of reality, came the memory of Errington's own bitter exclamation: "I forgot that I'm a man barred out from all that makes life worth living!"

She felt as though she had drawn near some invisible web, of which every now and then a single filament brushed against her—almost impalpable, yet touching her with the fleetest and lightest of contacts.

During the weeks that followed, Diana became more or less an intimate at Adrienne's house in Somervell Street. The actress seemed to have taken a great fancy to her, and although she was several years Diana's senior, the difference in age formed no appreciable stumbling-block to the growth of the friendship between them.

On her part, Diana regarded Adrienne with the enthusiastic devotion which an older woman—more especially if she happens to be very beautiful and occupying a somewhat unique position—frequently inspires in one younger than herself, and Olga Lermontof's grave warning might just as well have been uttered to the empty air. Diana's warm-hearted, spontaneous nature swept it aside with an almost passionate loyalty and belief in her new-found friend.

Once Miss Lermontof had referred to it rather disagreeably.

"So you've decided to make a friend of Miss de Gervais after all?" she said.

"Yes. And I think you've misjudged her utterly," Diana warmly assured her. "Of course," she added, sensitively afraid that the other might misconstrue her meaning, "I know you believed what you were saying, and that you only said it out of kindness to me. But you were mistaken—really you were."

"Humph!" The Russian's eyes narrowed until they looked like two slits of green fire. "Humph! I was wrong, was I? Nevertheless, I'm perfectly sure that Adrienne de Gervais' past is a closed book to you—although you call yourself her friend!"

Diana turned away without reply. It was true—Olga Lermontof had laid a finger on the weak spot in her friendship with Adrienne. The latter never talked to her of her past life; their mutual attachment was built solely around the present, and if by chance any question of Diana's accidentally probed into the past, it was adroitly parried. Even of Adrienne's nationality she was in ignorance, merely understanding, along with the rest of the world, that she was of French extraction. This assumption had probably been founded in the first instance upon her name, and Adrienne never troubled either to confirm or contradict it.

Mrs. Adams, her companion-chaperon, always made Diana especially welcome at the house in Somervell Street.

"You must come again soon, my dear," she would say cordially. "Adrienne makes few friends—and your visits are such a relaxation to her. The life she leads is rather a strain, you know."

At times Diana noticed a curious aloofness in her friend, as though her professional success occupied a position of relatively small importance in her estimation, and once she had commented on it half jokingly.

"You don't seem to value your laurels one bit," she had said, as Adrienne contemptuously tossed aside a newspaper containing a eulogy of her claims to distinction which most actresses would have carefully cut out and pasted into their book of critiques.

"Fame?" Adrienne had answered. "What is it? Merely the bubble of a day."

"Well," returned Diana, laughing, "it's the aim and object of a good many people's lives. It's the bubble I'm in pursuit of, and if I obtain one half the recognition you have had, I shall be very content."

Adrienne regarded her musingly.

"You will be famous when the name of Adrienne de Gervais is known no longer," she said at last.

Diana stared at her in surprise.

"But why? Even if I should succeed, within the next few years, you will still be Adrienne de Gervais, the famous actress."