But at first there were few, indeed, of the latter to contend with.

Owing to the illness of an important member of the cast, without whose services Adrienne declined to perform, the production of Max's new play, "Mrs. Fleming's Husband," was delayed until the autumn. This postponement left him free to devote much more of his time to his wife than would otherwise have been possible, and for the first few months after their marriage it seemed as though no shadow could ever fall athwart their happiness.

In this respect Baroni's prognostications of evil had failed to materialise, but his fears that marriage would interfere with Diana's musical career were better founded. Quite easily and naturally she slipped out of the professional life which had just been opening its doors to her. She felt no inclination to continue singing in public.

Max filled her existence, and although she still persevered with her musical training under Baroni, she told him with a frank enjoyment of the situation that she was far too happy and enjoying herself far too much to have any desire at present to take up the arduous work of a public singer!

Baroni was immeasurably disappointed, and not all Diana's a.s.surances that in a year, or two at most, she would go back into harness once more sufficed to cheer him.

"A year--two years!" he exclaimed. "Two years lost at the critical time--just at the commencement of your career! Ah, my dear Mrs.

Errington, you had better haf lost four years later on when you haf established yourself."

To Max himself the old _maestro_ was short and to the point when chance gave him the opportunity of a few moments alone with him.

"You haf stolen her from me, Max Errington--you haf broken your promise that she should be free to sing."

Max responded good-humouredly:--

"She _is_ free, _Maestro_, free to do exactly as she chooses. And she has chosen--to be my wife, to live for a time the pleasant, peaceful life that ordinary, everyday folk may live, who are not rushed hither and thither at the call of a career. Can you honestly say she hasn't chosen the better part?"

Baroni was silent.

"Don't grudge her a year or two of freedom," pursued Max. "You know, you old slave-driver, you,"--laughing--"that it is only because you want her for your beloved Art--because you want her voice! Otherwise you would rejoice in her happiness."

"And you--what is it you want?" retorted Baroni, unappeased. "You want her soul! Whereas I would give her soul wings that she might send it singing forth into an enraptured world."

But Baroni's words fell upon stony ground, and Max and Diana went their way, absorbed in one another and in the wonderful happiness which love had brought them.

Thus spring slipped away into summer, and the season was in full swing when fate tossed the first pebble into their unruffled pool of joy.

It was only a brief paragraph, sandwiched in between the musical notes of a morning paper, to which Olga Lermontof, who came daily to Lilac Lodge to practise with Diana, drew the latter's attention. The paragraph recalled the fact that it was just a year since Miss Quentin had made her debut, and then went on to comment lightly upon the brief and meteoric character of her professional appearances.

"Domesticity should not have claimed Miss Quentin"--so ran the actual words. "Hers was a voice the like of which we may not hear again, and the public grudges its withdrawal. _A propos_, we had always thought (until circ.u.mstances proved us hopelessly wrong) that the fortunate man, whose gain has been such a loss to the musical world, seemed born to write plays for a certain charming actress--and she to play the part which he a.s.signed her."

Diana showed the paragraph to Max, who frowned as he read it, and finally tore the newspaper in which it had appeared across and across, flinging the pieces into the grate.

Then he turned and laid his hands on Diana's shoulders, gazing searchingly into her face.

"Have you felt--anything of what that paragraph suggests?" he demanded.

"Am I taking too much from you, Diana? I love to keep you to myself--not to have to share you with the world, but I won't stand in your light, or hold you back if you wish to go--not even"--with a wry smile--"if it should mean your absence on a tour."

"Silly boy!" Diana patted his head reprovingly. "I don't _want_ to sing in public--at least, not now, not yet. Later on, I dare say, I shall like to take it up again. And as for leaving you and going on tour"--laughingly--"the latter half of the paragraph should serve as a warning to me not to think of such a thing!"

To her surprise Max did not laugh with her. Instead, he answered coldly:--

"I hope you have more sense than to pay attention to what any d.a.m.ned newspaper may have to say about me--or about Miss de Gervais either."

"Why, Max,--Max--"

Diana stared at him in dismay, flushing a little. It was the first time he had spoken harshly to her since their marriage.

In an instant he had caught her in his arms, pa.s.sionately repentant.

"Dearest, forgive me! It was only--only that you are bound to read such things, and it angered me for a moment. Miss de Gervais and I see too much of each other to escape all comment."

Diana withdrew herself slowly from his arms.

"And--and must you see so much of her now? Now that we are married?" she asked, rather wistfully.

"Why, of course. We have so many professional matters to discuss. You must be prepared for that, Diana. When we begin rehearsing 'Mrs.

Fleming's Husband,' I shall be down at the theatre every day."

"Oh, yes, at the theatre. But--but you go to see Adrienne rather often now, don't you? And the rehearsals haven't begun yet."

Max hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly:--

"Dear, you must learn not to be jealous of my work. There are always--many things--that I have to discuss with Miss de Gervais."

And so, for the time being, the subject dropped. But the shadow had flitted for a moment across the face of the sun. A little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, had shown itself upon the horizon.

In July the Erringtons left town to spend a brief holiday at Crailing Rectory, and on their return, the preparations for the production of "Mrs. Fleming's Husband" went forward in good earnest.

They had not been back in town a week before Diana realised that, as the wife of a dramatist on the eve of the production of a play, she must be prepared to cede her prior right in her husband to the innumerable people who claimed his time on matters relating to the forthcoming production, and, above all, to the actress who was playing the leading part in it.

And it was in respect of this latter demand that Diana found the matrimonial shoe begin to pinch. To her, it seemed as though Adrienne were for ever 'phoning Max to come and see her, and invariably he set everything else aside--even Diana herself, if needs be--and obeyed her behest.

"I can't see why Adrienne wants to consult you so often," Diana protested one day. "She is perpetually ringing you up to go round to Somervell Street--or if it's not that, then she is writing to you."

Max laughed her protest aside.

"Well, there's a lot to consult about, you see," he said vaguely.

"So it seems. I shall be glad when it is all finished and I have you to myself again. When will the play be on?"

"About the middle of October," he replied, fidgeting restlessly with the papers that strewed his desk. They were talking in his own particular den, and Diana's eyes ruefully followed the restless gesture.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "you want me to go?"

"Well"--apologetically--"I have a lot to attend to this morning. Will you send Jerry to me--do you mind, dearest?"

"It wouldn't make much difference if I did," she responded grimly, as she went towards the door.

Max looked after her thoughtfully in silence. When she had gone, he leaned his head rather wearily upon his hand.

"It's better so," he muttered. "Better she should think it's only the play that binds me to Adrienne."