“SONIA.”

Very slowly Diana handed the letter back to Baroni.

“So—­that was why,” she whispered.

Baroni bent his head.

“That was why.  I could not speak.  But I did all that lay in my power to prevent this marriage of yours.”

“You did.”  A wan little smile tilted the corners of her mouth at the remembrance.

“Afterwards—­your happiness was on the knees of the gods!”

“No,” said Diana suddenly.  “No.  It was in my own hands.  Had I believed in Max we should have been happy still. . . .  But I failed him.”

A long silence followed.  At last she rose, holding out her hands.

“Thank you,” she said simply.  “Thank you for showing me the letter.”

Baroni stooped his head and carried her hands to his lips.

“My dear, we make our mistakes and then we pay.  It is always so in life.  Love”—­and the odd, clouded voice shook a little—­“Love brings—­great happiness—­and great pain.  Yet we would not be without it.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE AWAKENING

Somehow the interminable hours of the day had at last worn to evening, and Diana found herself standing in front of a big mirror, listlessly watching Milling as she bustled round her, putting the last touches to her dress for the Duchess of Linfield’s reception.  The same thing had to be gone through every concert night—­the same patient waiting while the exquisite toilette, appropriate to a prima donna, was consummated by Milling’s clever fingers.

Only, this evening, every nerve in Diana’s body was quivering in rebellion.

What was it Olga had said? “Max is leaving England to-night.” So, while she was being dressed like a doll for the pleasuring of the people who had paid to hear her sing, Max was being borne away out of her ken, out of her existence for ever.

What a farce it all seemed!  In a little while she would be singing as perfectly as usual, bowing and smiling as usual, and not one amongst the crowded audience would know that in reality it was only the husk of a woman who stood there before them—­the mere outer shell.  All that mattered, the heart and soul of her, was dead.  She knew that quite well.  Probably she would feel glad about it in time, she thought, because when one was dead things didn’t hurt any more.  It was dying that hurt. . . .

“Your train, madam.”

She started at the sound of Milling’s respectful voice.  What a lop-sided thing a civilised sense of values seemed to be!  Even when you had dragged the white robes of your spirit deep in the mire, you must still be scrupulously careful not to soil the hem of the white satin that clothed your body.

She almost laughed aloud, then bit the laugh back, picturing Milling’s astonished face.  The girl would think she was mad.  Perhaps she was.  It didn’t matter much, anyway.