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 circumstances 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 assigned 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 damned 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, passionately 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.”