“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 God, Maestro!”—­a sudden ring of passion 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.”

“I know I’m late, but I can assure you”—­with a grim smile—­“love had little enough to do with it.”

Adrienne looked up sharply, struck by the bitter note in his voice.