"Thank heaven! thank heaven!" exclaimed Baroni, wringing Max's hand.

"You haf saved the situation, Mr. Errington."

A minute later Diana found herself mounting the platform steps, her hand in Max's. His close, firm clasp steadied and rea.s.sured her.

Again she was aware of that curious sense of well-being, as of leaning on some sure, unfailing strength, which the touch of his hand had before inspired.

As he led her on to the platform she met his eyes, full of a kind good-comradeship and confidence.

"All right?" he whispered cheerfully.

A little comforting warmth crept about her heart. She was not alone, facing all those hundreds of curious, critical eyes in the hall below; there was a friend "standing by."

She nodded to him rea.s.suringly, suddenly conscious of complete self-mastery. She no longer feared those ranks of upturned faces, row upon row, receding into shadow at the further end of the hall, and she bowed composedly in response to the applause that greeted her. Then she heard Max strike the opening chord of the song, and a minute later the big concert-hall was thrilling to the matchless beauty of her voice, as it floated out on to the waiting stillness.

The five songs of the group followed each other in quick succession, the clapping that broke out between each of them only checking so that the next one might be heard, but when the final number had been given, and the last note had drifted tenderly away into silence, the vast audience rose to its feet almost as one man, shouting and clapping and waving in a tumultuous outburst of enthusiasm.

Diana stood quite still, almost frightened by the uproar, until Max touched her arm and escorted her off the platform.

In the artistes' room every one crowded round her pouring out congratulations. Baroni seized both her hands and kissed them; then he kissed her cheek, the tears in his eyes. And all the time came the thunder of applause from the auditorium, beating up in steady, rhythmic waves of sound.

"Go!--Go back, my child, and bow." Baroni impelled her gently towards the door. "_Gran Dio_! What a success! . . . What a voice of heaven!"

Rather nervously, Diana mounted the platform once more, stepping forward a little shyly; her cheeks were flushed, and her wonderful eyes shone like grey stars. A fillet of pale green leaves bound her smoke-black hair, and the slender, girlish figure in its sea-green gown, touched here and there with gold embroidery, reminded one of spring, and the young green and gold of daffodils.

Instantly the applause redoubled. People were surging forward towards the platform, pressing round an unfortunate usher who was endeavouring to hand up a sheaf of roses to the singer. Diana bowed, and bowed again. Then she stooped and accepted the roses, and a fresh burst of clapping ensued. A wreath of laurel, and a huge bunch of white heather, for luck, followed the sheaf of roses, and finally, her arms full of flowers, smiling, bowing still, she escaped from the platform.

Back again in the artistes' room, she found that a number of her friends in front had come round to offer their congratulations. Alan Stair and Joan, Jerry, and Adrienne de Gervais were amongst them, and Diana at once became the centre of a little excited throng, all laughing and talking and shaking her by the hand. Every one seemed to be speaking at once, and behind it all still rose and fell the cannonade of shouts and clapping from the hall.

Four times Diana returned to the platform to acknowledge the tremendous ovation which her singing had called forth, and at length, since Baroni forbade an encore until after her second group of songs, Madame de Louvigny went on to give her solo.

"They weel not want to hear me--after you, Mees Quentin," she said laughingly.

But the British public is always very faithful to its favourites, and the audience, realising at last that the new singer was not going to bestow an encore, promptly exerted itself to welcome the French pianist in a befitting manner.

When Diana reappeared for her second group of song's the excitement was intense. Whilst she was singing a pin could have been heard to fall; it almost seemed as though the huge concourse of people held its breath so that not a single note of the wonderful voice should be missed, and when she ceased there fell a silence--that brief silence, like a sigh of ecstasy, which, is the greatest tribute that any artiste can receive.

Then, with a crash like thunder, the applause broke out once more, and presently, reappearing with the sheaf of roses in her hand, Diana sang "The Haven of Memory" as an encore.

Let me remember, When I am very lonely, How once your love But crowned and blessed roe only, Long and long ago.

The plaintive rhythm died away and the clapping which succeeded it was quieter, less boisterous, than hitherto. Some people were crying openly, and many surrept.i.tiously wiped away a tear or so in the intervals of applauding. The audience was shaken by the tender, sorrowful emotion of the song, its big, sentimental British heart throbbing to the haunting quality of the most beautiful voice in Europe.

Diana herself had tears in her eyes. She was experiencing for the first time the pa.s.sionate exultation born of the knowledge that she could sway the hearts of a mult.i.tude by the sheer beauty of her singing--an abiding recompense bestowed for all the sacrifices which art demands from those who learn her secrets.

Her fingers, gripping with unconscious intensity the flowers she held, detached a white rose from the sheaf, and it had barely time to reach the floor before a young man from the audience, eager-eyed, his face pale with excitement, sprang forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up from beneath her feet.

In an instant there was an uproar. Men and women lost their heads and clambered up on to the platform, pressing round the singer, besieging her for a spray of leaves or a flower from the sheaf she carried. Some even tried to secure a bit of the gold embroidery from off her gown by way of memento.

"Oh, please . . . please . . ."

A crowd that is overwrought, either by anger or enthusiasm, is a difficult thing to handle, and Diana retreated desperately, frightened by the storm she had evoked. One man was kneeling beside her, rapturously kissing the hem of her gown, and the eager, excited faces, the outstretched hands, the vision of the surging throng below, and the tumult and clamour that filled the concert-hall terrified her.

Suddenly a strong arm intervened between her and the group of enthusiasts who were flocking round her, and she found that she was being quietly drawn aside into safety. Max Errington's tall form had interposed itself between her and her too eager worshippers. With a little gasp of relief she let him lead her down the steps of the platform and back into the comparative calm of the artistes' room, while two of the ushers hurried forward and dispersed the memento-seekers, shepherding them back into the hall below, so that the concert might continue.

The latter part of the programme was heard with attention, but not even the final _duo_ for violin and piano, exquisite though it was, succeeded in rousing the audience to a normal pitch of fervour again.

Emotion and enthusiasm were alike exhausted, and now that Diana's share in the recital was over, the big a.s.semblage of people listened to the remaining numbers much as a child, tired with play, may listen to a lullaby--placidly appreciative, but without overwhelming excitement.

"Well, what did I tell you?" demanded Jerry, triumphantly, of the little party of friends who gathered together for tea in Diana's sitting-room, when at length the great event of the afternoon was over.

"What did I tell you? . . . I said Diana would just romp past the post--all the others nowhere. And behold! It came to pa.s.s."

"It's a good thing Madame Louvigny and Kirolski can't hear you,"

observed Joan sagely. "They've probably got quite nice natures, but you'd strain the forbearance of an early Christian martyr, Jerry.

Besides, you needn't be so fulsome to Diana; it isn't good for her."

Jerry retorted with spirit, and the two drifted into a pleasant little wrangle--the kind of sparring match by which youths and maidens frequently endeavour to convince themselves, and the world at large, of the purely Platonic nature of their sentiments.

Bunty, who had rejoiced in her promised seat in the front row at the concert, was hurrying to and fro, a maid-servant in attendance, bringing in tea, while Mrs. Lawrence, who had also been the recipient of a complimentary ticket, looked in for a few minutes to felicitate the heroine of the day.

She mentally patted herself on the back for the discernment she had evinced in making certain relaxations of her stringent rules in favour of this particular boarder. It was quite evident that before long Miss Quentin would be distinctly a "personage," shedding a delectable effulgence upon her immediate surroundings, and Mrs. Lawrence was firmly decided that, if any effort of hers could compa.s.s it, those surroundings should continue to be No. 34 Brutton Square.

Diana herself looked tired but irrepressibly happy. Now that it was all over, and success a.s.sured, she realised how intensely she had dreaded the ordeal of this first recital.

Olga Lermontof, her injured hand resting in a sling, chaffed her with some amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I suppose, at last, you're beginning to understand that your voice is really something out of the ordinary," she said. "Its effect on the audience this afternoon is a better criterion than all the notices in to-morrow's newspapers put together."

Diana laughed.

"Well, I hope it won't make a habit of producing that effect!" she said, pulling a little face of disgust at the recollection. "I don't know what would have happened if Mr. Errington hadn't come to my rescue."

Max smiled across at her.

"You'd have been torn to bits and the pieces distributed amongst the audience--like souvenir programmes--I imagine," he replied. Then, turning towards the accompanist, he continued: "How does your hand feel now, Miss Lermontof?"

There was a curious change in his voice as he addressed the Russian, and Diana, glancing quickly towards her, surprised a strangely wistful look in her eyes as they rested upon Errington's face.

"Oh, it is much better. I shall be able to play again in a few days.

But it was fortunate you were at the concert to-day, and able to take my place."

"So you approve of me--for once?" he queried, with a rather twisted little smile.

Olga remained silent for a moment, her eyes searching his face. Then she said very deliberately:--

"I am glad you were able to play for Miss Quentin."

"But you won't commit yourself so far as to say that I have your approval--even once?"