The hush deepened in the room. Perhaps the very emotion under which Diana was labouring added to the charm of her wonderful voice--gave it an indescribable appeal which held the critical audience, familiar with all the best that the musical world could offer, spell-bound.

When she ceased, and the last exquisite note had vibrated into silence, the enthusiasm of the applause that broke out would have done justice to a theatre pit audience rather than to a more or less blase society crowd. And when the whisper went round that this was to be her only song--that Baroni had laid his veto upon her singing twice--the clapping and demands for an encore were redoubled.

Olga Lermontof's eyes, roaming over the room, rested at last upon the face of Max Errington, and with the recollection of Diana's hesitancy at the beginning of the song a brief smile flashed across her face.

"What shall I do?" Diana, who had bowed repeatedly without stemming the applause, turned to the accompanist, a little flushed with the thrill of this first public recognition of her gifts.

"Sing 'The Haven of Memory,'" whispered Olga.

It was a sad little love lyric which Baroni himself had set to music specially for the voice of his favourite pupil, and as Diana's low rich notes took up the plaintive melody, the audience settled itself down with a sigh of satisfaction to listen once more.

Do you remember Our great love's pure unfolding, The troth you gave, And prayed for G.o.d's upholding, Long and long ago?

Out of the past A dream--and then the waking-- Comes back to me, Of love and love's forsaking Ere the summer waned.

Ah! let me dream That still a little kindness Dwelt in the smile That chid my foolish blindness, When you said good-bye.

Let me remember, When I am very lonely, How once your love But crowned and blessed me only, Long and long ago! [1]

The haunting melody ceased, and an infinitesimal pause ensued before the clapping broke out. It was rather subdued this time; more than one pair of eyes were looking at the singer through the grey mist of memory.

An old lady with very white hair and a reputation for a witty tongue that had been dipped in vinegar came up to Diana as she descended from the platform.

"My dear," she said, and the keen old eyes were suddenly blurred and dim. "I want to thank you. One is apt to forget--when one is very lonely--that we've most of us worn love's crown just once--if only for a few moments of our lives. . . . And it's good to be reminded of it, even though it may hurt a little."

"That was the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Linfield," murmured Olga, when the old lady had moved away again. "They say she was madly in love with an Italian opera singer in the days of her youth. But, of course, at that time he was quite unknown and altogether ineligible, so she married the late Duke, who was old enough to be her father. By the time he died the opera singer was dead, too."

That was Diana's first taste of the power of a beautiful voice to unlock the closed chambers of the heart where lie our hidden memories--the long pain of years, sometimes unveiled to those whose gifts appeal directly to the emotions. It sobered her a little. This, then, she thought, this leaf of rue that seemed to bring the sadness of the world so close, was interwoven with the crown of laurel.

"Won't you say how do you do to me, Miss Quentin? I've been deputed by Miss de Gervais to see that you have some supper after breaking all our hearts with your singing."

Diana, roused from her thoughts, looked up to see Max Errington regarding her with the old, faintly amused mockery in his eyes.

She shook hands.

"I don't believe you've got a heart to break," she retorted, smiling.

"Oh, mine was broken long before I heard you sing. Otherwise I would not answer for the consequences of that sad little song of yours. What is it called?"

"'The Haven of Memory,'" replied Diana, as Errington skilfully piloted her to a small table standing by itself in an alcove of the supper-room.

"What a misleading name! Wouldn't 'The _h.e.l.l_ of Memory' be more appropriate--more true to life?"

"I suppose," answered Diana soberly, "that it might appear differently to different people."

"You mean that the garden of memory may have several aspects--like a house? I'm afraid mine faces north. Yours, I expect, is full of spring flowers"--smiling a little quizzically.

"With the addition of a few weeds," she answered.

"Weeds? Surely not? Who planted them there?" His keen, penetrating eyes were fixed on her face.

Diana was silent, her fingers trifling nervously with the salt in one of the little silver cruets, first piling it up into a tiny mound, and then flattening it down again and patterning its surface with criss-cross lines.

There was no one near. In the alcove Errington had chosen, the two were completely screened from the rest of the room by a carved oak pillar and velvet curtains.

He laid his hand over the restless fingers, holding them in a sure, firm clasp that brought back vividly to her mind the remembrance of that day when he had helped her up the steps of the quayside at Crailing.

"Diana"--his voice deepened a little--"am I responsible for any of the weeds in your garden?"

Her hand trembled a little under his. After a moment she threw back her head defiantly and met his glance.

"Perhaps there's a stinging-nettle or two labelled with your name," she answered lightly. "The Nettlewort Erringtonia," she added, smiling.

Diana was growing up rapidly.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you that I'm sorry--that I'd uproot them if I could?"

She looked away from him in silence. He could not see her expression, only the pure outline of her cheek and a little pulse that was beating rapidly in her throat.

With a sudden, impetuous movement he released her hand, almost flinging it from him.

"My application for the post of gardener is refused, I see," he said.

"And quite rightly, too. It was great presumption on my part. After all"--with bitter mockery--"what are a handful of nettles in the garden of a _prima donna_? They'll soon be stifled beneath the wreaths of laurel and bouquets that the world will throw you. You'll never even feel their sting."

"You are wrong," said Diana, very low, "quite wrong. They _have_ stung me. Mr. Errington"--and as she turned to him he saw that her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears--"why can't we be friends? You--you have helped me so many times that I don't understand why you treat me now . . . almost as though I were an enemy?"

"An enemy? . . . You!"

"Yes," she said steadily.

He was silent.

"I don't wish to be," she went on, an odd wistfulness in her voice.

"Can't we--be friends?"

Errington pushed his plate aside abruptly.

"You don't know what you're offering me," he said, in hurrying tones.

"If I could only take it! . . . But I've no right to make friends--no right. I think I've been singled out by fate to live alone."

"Yet you are friends with Miss de Gervais," she said quickly.

"I write plays for her," he replied evasively. "So that we are obliged to see a good deal of each other."

"And apparently you don't want to be friends with me."