A violin solo preceded the two songs which, bracketed together in the middle of the programme as its culminating point, made the sum total of Diana’s part in it, and she waited quietly in the little anteroom while the violinist played, was encored and played again, and throughout the brief interval that followed.  She felt that to-night she could not face the cheap, everyday flow of talk and compliment.  She would sing because she had promised, that she would, but as soon as her part was done she would slip away and go home—­home, where she could sit alone by the dead embers of her happiness.

A little flutter of excitement rippled through the big rooms when at last she mounted the platform.  People who had hitherto been content to remain, in the hall, regarding the music as a pleasant accompaniment to the interchange of the day’s news and gossip, now came flocking in through the doorways, hoping to find seats, and mostly having to content themselves with standing-room.

Almost as in a dream, Diana waited for the applause to subside, her eyes roaming halt-unconsciously over the big assembly.

It was all so stalely familiar—­the little rustle of excitement, the preliminary clapping, the settling down to listen, and then the sea of upturned faces spread out beneath her.

The memory of the first time that she had sung in public, at Adrienne’s house in Somervell Street, came back to her.  It had been just such an occasion as this. . . .

(Olga was playing the introductory bars of accompaniment to her song, and, still as in a dream, she began to sing, the exquisite voice thrilling out into the vast room, golden and perfect.)

. . .  Adrienne had smiled at her encouragingly from across the room, and Jerry Leigh had been standing at the far end near some big double doors.  There were double doors to this room, too, flung wide open.  (It was odd how clearly she could recall it all; her mind seemed to be working quite independently of what was going on around her.) And Max had been there.  She remembered how she had believed him to be still abroad, and then, how she had looked up and suddenly met his gaze across those rows and rows of unfamiliar faces.  He had come back.

Instinctively she glanced towards the far end of the room, where, on that other night and in that other room, he had been standing, and then . . . then . . . was it still only the dream, the memory of long ago? . . .  Or had God worked a miracle? . . .  Over the heads of the people, Max’s eyes, grave and tender, but unspeakably sad, looked into hers!

A hand seemed to grip her heart, squeezing it so that she could not draw her breath.  Everything grew blurred and dim about her, but through the blur she could still see Max, standing with his head thrown back against the panelling of the door, his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes—­those grave, questioning eyes—­fixed on her face.