"But I thought that your people had plenty of money?"

"So they have--trucks of it. Coal-trucks!"--with a debonair reference to the fact that Leigh _pere_ was a wealthy coal-owner. "But, you see, when I was having my fling, which came to such an abrupt end at Monte, the governor got downright ratty with me--kicked up no end of a shine.

Told me not to darken his doors again, and that I might take my own road to the devil for all he cared, and generally played the part of the outraged parent. I must say," he added ingenuously, "that the old boy had paid my debts and set me straight a good many times before he _did_ cut up rusty."

"You're the only child, aren't you?" Jerry nodded. "Oh, well then, of course he'll come round in time--they always do. I shouldn't worry a bit if I were you."

"Well," said Jerry hesitatingly, "I did think that perhaps if I went to him some day with a certificate of good character and steady work from Errington, it might smooth matters a bit. I'm fond of the governor, you know, in spite of his d.a.m.n bad temper--and it must be rather rotten for the old chap living all by himself at Abbotsleigh."

"Yes, it must. One fine day you'll make it up with him, Jerry, and he'll slay the fatted calf and you'll have no end of a good time."

Just then the clock of a neighbouring church chimed the half-hour, and Jerry jumped to his feet in a hurry.

"My hat! Half-past six! I must be toddling. What a squanderer of unconsidered hours you are, Diana! . . . Well, by-bye, old girl; it's good to see you back in town. Then I may tell Miss de Gervais that you'll sing for her?"

Diana nodded.

"Of course I will. It will be a sort of preliminary canter for my recital."

"And when that event comes off, you'll sail past the post lengths in front of any one else."

And with that Jerry took his departure. A minute later Diana heard the front door bang, and from the window watched him striding along the street. He looked back, just before he turned the corner, and waved his hand cheerily.

"Nice boy!" she murmured, and then set about her unpacking in good earnest.

CHAPTER XII

MAX ERRINGTON'S RETURN

It was the evening of Adrienne's reception, and Diana was adding a few last touches to her toilette for the occasion. Bunty had been playing the part of lady's maid, and now they both stood back to observe the result of their labours.

"You do look nice!" remarked Miss Bunting, in a tone of satisfaction.

Diana glanced half-shyly into the long gla.s.s panel of the wardrobe door. There was something vivid and arresting about her to-night, as though she were tremulously aware that she was about to take the first step along her road as a public singer. A touch of excitement had added an unwonted brilliance to her eyes, while a faint flush came and went swiftly in her cheeks.

Bunty, without knowing quite what it was that appealed, was suddenly conscious of the sheer physical charm of her.

"You are rather wonderful," she said consideringly.

A sense of the sharp contrast between them smote Diana almost painfully--she herself, young and radiant, holding in her slender throat a key that would unlock the doors of the whole world, and beside her the little boarding-house help, equally young, and with all youth's big demands pent up within her, yet ahead of her only a drab vista of other boarding-houses--some better, some worse, mayhap--but always eating the bread of servitude, her only possible way of escape by means of matrimony with some little underpaid clerk.

And what had Bunty done to deserve so poor a lot? Hers was unquestionably by far the finer character of the two, as Diana frankly admitted to herself. In truth, the apparent injustices of fate made a riddle hard to read.

"And you,"--Diana spoke impulsively--"you are the dearest thing imaginable. I wish you were coming with me."

"I should like to hear you sing in those big rooms," acknowledged Bunty, a little wistfully.

"When I give my recital you shall have a seat in the front row," Diana promised, as she picked up her gloves and music-case.

A tap sounded at the door.

"Are you ready?" inquired Olga Lermontof a voice from outside.

Bunty opened the door.

"Oh, come in, Miss Lermontof. Yes, Miss Quentin is quite ready, and I must run away now."

Olga came in and stood for a moment looking at Diana. Then she deliberately stepped close to her, so that their reflections showed side by side in the big mirror.

"Black and white angels--quite symbolical," she observed, with a short laugh.

She was dressed entirely in black, and her sable figure made a startling foil to Diana's slender whiteness.

"Nervous?" she asked laconically, noticing the restless tapping of the other's foot.

"I believe I am," replied Diana, smiling a little.

"You needn't be."

"I should be terrified if anyone else were accompanying me. But, somehow, I think you always give me confidence when I'm singing."

"Probably because I'm always firmly convinced of your ultimate success."

"No, no. It isn't that. It's because you're the most perfect accompanist any one could have."

Miss Lermontof swept her a mocking curtsey.

"_Mille remerciments_!" Then she laughed rather oddly. "I believe you still have no conception of the glory of your voice, you queer child."

"Is it really so good?" asked Diana, with the genuine artist's craving to be rea.s.sured.

Olga Lermontof looked at her speculatively.

"I suppose you can't understand it at present," she said, after a pause. "You will, though, when you've given a few concerts and seen its effect upon the audience. Now, come along; it's time we started."

They found Adrienne's rooms fairly full, but not in the least overcrowded. The big double doors between the two drawing-rooms had been thrown open, and the tide of people flowed back and forth from one room to the other. A small platform had been erected at one end, and as Diana and Miss Lermontof entered, a French _diseuse_ was just ascending it preparatory to reciting in her native tongue.

The recitation--vivid, accompanied by the direct, expressive gesture for which Mademoiselle de Bonvouloir was so famous--was followed at appropriate intervals by one or two items of instrumental music, and then Diana found herself mounting the little platform, and a hush descended anew upon the throng of people, the last eager chatterers twittering into silence as Olga Lermontof struck the first note of the song's prelude.

Diana was conscious of a small sea of faces all turned towards her, most of them unfamiliar. She could just see Adrienne smiling at her from the back of the room, and near the double doors Jerry was standing next a tall man whose back was towards the platform as he bent to move aside a chair that was in the way. The next moment he had straightened himself and turned round, and with a sudden, almost agonising leap of the heart Diana saw that it was Max Errington.

He had come back! After that first wild throb her heart seemed, to stand still, the room grew dark around her, and, she swayed a little where she stood.

"Nervous!" murmured one man to another, beneath his breath.

Olga Lermontof had finished the prelude, and, finding that Diana had failed to come in, composedly recommenced it. Diana was dimly conscious of the repet.i.tion, and then the mist gradually cleared away from before her eyes, and this time, when the accompanist played the bar of her entry, the habit of long practice prevailed and she took up the voice part with accurate precision.