But Baroni was not content to let matters remain as they stood, trusting that his warning would do its work. He was determined to leave no stone unturned, and he forthwith sought out Errington in his own house and deliberately broached the subject of his engagement to Diana.

Max greeted him affectionately.

"It's a long while since you honoured me with a visit," he said, shaking hands. "I suppose"--laughingly--"you come to congratulate me?"

The old man shook his head.

"Far from it. I haf come to ask you to give her up."

"To give her up?" repeated Max, in undisguised amazement.

"Yes. Mees Quentin is not for marriage. She is dedicated to Art."

Max smiled indulgently.

"To Art? Yes. But she's for me, too, thank G.o.d! Dear old friend, you need not look so anxious and concerned. I've no wish to interfere with Diana's professional work. You shall have her voice"--smiling--"I'll be content to hold her heart."

But there was no answering smile on Baroni's lips.

"_Does she know--everything_?" he asked sternly.

Max shook his head.

"No. How could she? . . . _You_ must realise the impossibility of that," he answered slowly.

"And you think it right to let her marry you in ignorance?"

Max hesitated. Then--

"She trusts me," he said at last.

"Pish! For how long? . . . When she sees daily under her eyes things that she cannot explain, unaccountable things, how long will she remain satisfied, I ask you? And then will begin unhappiness."

Errington stiffened.

"And what has our--supposit.i.tious--unhappiness to do with you, Signor Baroni?" he asked haughtily.

"_Your_ unhappiness? Nothing. It is the price you must pay--your inheritance. But hers? Everything. Tears, fretting, vexation--and that beautiful voice, that perfect organ, may be impaired. Think!

Think what you are doing! Just for your own personal happiness you are risking the voice of the century, the voice that will give pleasure to tens of thousands--to millions. You are committing a crime against Art."

Max smiled in spite of himself.

"Truly, _Maestro_, I had not thought of it like that," he admitted.

"But I think her faith in me will carry us through," he added confidently.

"Never! Never! Women are not made like that."

"And perhaps, later on, if things go well, I shall be able to tell her all."

"And much good that will do! _Diavolo_! When the time comes that things go well--if it ever does come--"

"It will. It shall," said Max firmly.

"Well, if it does--I ask you, can she then continue her life as an artiste?"

Max reflected.

"Yes, if I remain in England--which I hope to do. I counted on that when I asked her to marry me. I think I shall be able to arrange it."

"If! If! Are you going to hang your wife's happiness upon an 'if'?"

Baroni spoke with intense anger. "And 'if' you _cannot_ remain in England, if you haf to go back--_there_? Can your wife still appear as a public singer?"

"No," acknowledged Max slowly. "I suppose not."

"No! Her career will be ruined. And all this is the price she will haf to pay for her--_trust_! Give it up, give it up--set her free."

Max flung himself into a chair, leaning his arms wearily on the table, and stared straight in front of him, his eyes dark with pain.

"I can't," he said, in a low voice. "Not now. I meant to--I tried to--but now she has promised and I can't let her go. Good G.o.d, _Maestro_!"--a sudden ring of pa.s.sion in his tones--"Must I give up everything? Am I to have nothing in the world? Always to be a tool and never live an individual man's life of my own?"

Baroni's face softened a little.

"One cannot escape one's destiny," he said sadly. "_Che sara sara_. . . . But you can spare--her. Tell her the truth, and in common fairness let her judge for herself--not rush blindfold into such a web."

Max shook his head.

"You know I can't do that," he replied quietly.

Baroni threw out his arms in despair.

"I would tell her the whole truth myself--but for the memory of one who is dead." Sudden tears dimmed the fierce old eyes. "For the sake of that sainted martyr--martyr in life as well as in death--I will hold my peace."

A half-sad, half-humorous smile flashed across Errington's face.

"We're all of us martyrs--more or less," he observed drily.

"And you wish to add Mees Quentin to the list?" retorted Baroni.

"Well, I warn you, I shall fight against it. I will do everything in my power to stop this marriage."

Max shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sure you will," he said, smiling faintly. "But--forgive me, _Maestro_--I don't think you will succeed."

As soon as Baroni had taken his departure, Max called a taxi, and hurried off to see Adrienne de Gervais. He had arranged to talk over with her a certain scene in the play he was now writing for her, and which was to be produced early in the New Year.

Adrienne welcomed him good-humouredly.

"A little late," she observed, glancing at the clock. "But I suppose one must not expect punctuality when a man's in love."