To rehearse!  Diana’s face clouded suddenly.  She had entirely forgotten that she had promised to give her services that night at a reception, organised in aid of some charity by the Duchess of Linfield—­the shrewish old woman who had paid Diana her first tribute of tears—­and the recollection of it sounded the knell to her hopes of seeing Max that day.  The morning must perforce be devoted to practising, the afternoon to the necessary rest which Baroni insisted upon, and after that there would be only time to dress and partake of a light meal before she drove to the Duchess’s house.

It would not be possible to see Max!  Even had there been time she dared not risk the probable consequences to her voice which the strain and emotion of such an interview must necessarily carry in their train.

For a moment she felt tempted to break her engagement, to throw it over at the last instant and telephone to the Duchess to find a substitute.  And then her sense of duty to her public—­to the big, warm-hearted public who had always welcomed and supported her—­pushed itself to the fore, forbidding her to take this way out of the difficulty.

How could she, who had never yet broken a contract when her appearance involved a big fee, fail now, on an occasion when she had consented to give her services, and when it was her name alone on the programme which had charmed so much money from the pockets of the wealthy, that not a single seat of all that could be crowded into the Duchess’s rooms remained unsold?  Oh, it was impossible!

Had it meant the renouncing of the biggest fee ever offered her, Diana, would have impetuously sacrificed it and flung her patrons overboard.  But it meant something more than that.  It was a debt of honour, her professional honour.

After all, the fulfilment of her promise to sing would only mean setting her own affairs aside for twenty-four hours, and somehow she felt that Max would understand and approve.  He would never wish to snatch a few earlier hours of happiness if they must needs be purchased at the price of a broken promise.  But her heart sank as she faced the only alternative.

She turned to Milling, the happy exultation that had lit her eyes suddenly quenched.

“Ask the Maestro kindly to ’phone Miss Lermontof that I shall be ready at eleven,” she said quietly.

In some curious way this unlooked-for upset to her plans seemed to have cast a shadow across her path.  The warm surety of coming happiness which had lapped her round receded, and a vague, indefinable apprehension invaded her consciousness.  It was as though she sensed something sinister that lay in wait for her round the next corner, and all her efforts to recapture the radiant exultation of her mood of yestereve, to shake off the nervous dread that had laid hold of her, failed miserably.