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 assurances 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.