Mechanically she held out her arm for Milling to throw the train of her gown across it, and, picking up her gloves, went slowly downstairs.

Baroni, his face wearing an expression of acute anxiety, was waiting for her in the hall, restlessly pacing to and fro.

“Ah—­h!” His face cleared as by magic when the slender, white-clad figure appeared round the last bend of the stairway.  He had half feared that at the last moment the strain of the day’s emotion might exact its penalty, and Diana prove unequal to the evening’s demands.

To hide his obvious relief, he turned sharply to the maid, who had followed her mistress downstairs, carrying her opera coat and furs.

“Madame’s cloak—­make haste!” he commanded curtly.

And when Diana had entered the car, he waved aside the manservant and himself tucked the big fur rug carefully round her.  There was something rather pathetic, almost maternal, in the old man’s care of her, and Diana’s lips quivered.

“Thank you, dear Maestro,” she said, gently pressing his arm with her hand.

The Duchess’s house was packed with a complacent crowd of people, congratulating themselves upon being able, for once, to combine duty and pleasure, since the purchase-money of their tickets for the evening’s entertainment contributed to a well-known charity, and at the same time procured them the privilege of bearing once more their favourite singer.  Some there were who had grounds for additional satisfaction in the fact that, under the wide cloak of charity, they had managed to squeeze through the exclusive portals of Linfield House for the first—­and probably the last—­time in their lives.

As the singer made her way through the thronged hall, those who knew her personally bowed and smiled effusively, whilst those who didn’t looked on from afar and wished they did.  It was not unlike a royal progress, and Diana heaved a quick sigh of relief when at last she found herself in the quiet of the little apartment set aside as an artistes’ room.

Olga Lermontof was already there, and Diana greeted her rather nervously.  She felt horribly uncertain what attitude Miss Lermontof might be expected to adopt in the circumstances.

But she need have had no anxiety on that score.  Olga seemed to be just her usual self—­grave and self-contained, her thin, dark-browed face wearing its habitual half-mocking expression.  Apparently she had wiped out the day’s happenings from her mind, and had become once more merely the quiet, competent accompanist to a well-known singer.

There was no one else in the artistes’ room.  The other performers were mingling with the guests, only withdrawing from the chattering crowd when claimed by their part in the evening’s entertainment.

“How far on are they?” asked Diana, picking up the programme and running her eye down it.

“Your songs are the next item but one,” replied Miss Lermontof.