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.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE APPROACHING SHADOW

Diana gathered up her songs and slowly dropped them into her music-case, while Baroni stared at her with a puzzled, brooding look in his eyes.

At last he spoke:—­

“You are throwing away the great gift God has given you.  First, you will take no more engagements, and now—­what is it?  Where is your voice?”

Diana, conscious of having done herself less than justice at the lesson which was just concluded, shook her head.