“Childish?” she retorted.  “Yes, I suppose it is childish to mind being deceived.  I ought to have been prepared for it—­expected it.”

At the note of suffering in her voice the anger died swiftly out of his eyes.

“You don’t mean that, Diana,” he said, more gently.

“Yes, I do.  You warned me—­didn’t you?—­that there would be things you couldn’t explain.  I suppose”—­bitterly—­“this is one of them!”

“No, it is not.  I can explain this.  I didn’t intend coming to-night, as I told you.  But Miss de Gervais rang up from the theatre and begged me to come, so, of course, as she wished it—­”

“‘As she wished it!’ Are her wishes, then, of so much more importance than mine?”

Errington was silent for a moment.  At last he replied quietly:—­

“You know they are not.  But in this case, in the matter of the play, she is entitled to every consideration.”

Diana’s eyes searched his face.  Beneath the soft laces of her gown her breast still rose and fell stormily, but she had herself in hand now.

“Max, when I married you I took . . . something . . . on trust.”  She spoke slowly, weighing her words, “But I didn’t expect that something to include—­Adrienne!  What has she to do with you?”

Errington’s brows came sharply together.  He drew a quick, short breath as though bracing himself to meet some unforeseen danger.

“I’ve written a play for her,” he answered shortly.

“Yes, I know.  But is that all that there is between you—­this play?”

“I can’t answer that question,” he replied quietly.

Diana flung out her hand with a sudden, passionate gesture.

“You’ve answered it, I think,” she said scornfully.

He took a quick stride towards her, catching her by the arms.

“Diana”—­his voice vibrated—­“won’t you trust me?”

“Trust you!  How can I?” she broke out wildly.  “If trusting you means standing by whilst Adrienne—­ Oh, I can’t bear it.  You’re asking too much of me, Max.  I didn’t know . . . when you asked me to trust you . . . that it meant—­this! . . .  And there’s something else, too.  Who are you?  What is your real name?  I don’t even know”—­bitterly—­“whom I’ve married!”

He released her suddenly, almost as though she had struck him.

“Who has been talking to you?” he demanded, thickly.

“Then it’s true?”

Diana’s hands fell to her sides and every drop of colour drained away from her face.  The question had been lying dormant in her mind ever since the day when Olga Lermontof had first implanted it there.  Now it had sprung from her lips, dragged forth by the emotion of the moment. And he couldn’t answer it!

“Then it’s true?” she repeated.

Errington’s face set like a mask.

“That is a question you shouldn’t have asked,” he replied coldly.