“However, I’ll do my best, Di,” she added, as she seated herself at the piano.

Joan’s “best” as a pianist did not amount to very much at any time, and she altogether lacked that intuitive understanding and sympathy which is the sine qua non of a good accompanist.  Diana, accustomed to the trained perfection of Olga Lermontof, found herself considerably handicapped, and her rendering of the song in question, Saint-Saens’ Amour, viens aider, left a good deal to be desired in consequence—­a fact of which no one was more conscious than she herself.

But the voice!  As the full rich notes hung on the air, vibrant with that indescribably thrilling quality which seems the prerogative of the contralto, Errington recognised at once that here was a singer destined to make her mark.  The slight surprise which he had evinced on first learning that she was a pupil of the great Baroni vanished instantly.  No master could be better fitted to have the handling of such a voice—­and certainly, he added mentally, Joan Stair was a ludicrously inadequate accompanist, only to be excused by her frank acknowledgment of the fact.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Di,” she said at the conclusion of the song.  “But I really can’t manage the accompaniment.”

Errington rose and crossed the room to the piano.

“Will you allow me to take your place?” he said pleasantly.  “That is, if Miss Quentin permits?  It is hard lines to be suddenly called upon to read accompaniments if you are not accustomed to it.”

“Oh, do you play?” exclaimed Joan, vacating her seat gladly.  “Then please do.  I feel as if I were committing murder when I stumble through Diana’s songs.”

She joined the Rector at the far end of the room, adding with a smile:—­

“I make a much better audience than performer.”

“What shall it be?” said Errington, turning over the pile of songs.

“What you like,” returned Diana indifferently.  She was rather pale, and her hand shook a little as she fidgeted restlessly with a sheet of music.  It almost seemed as though the projected change of accompanist were distasteful to her.

Max laid his own hand over hers an instant.

“Please let me play for you,” he said simply.

There was a note of appeal in his voice—­rather as if he were seeking to soften her resentment against him, and would regard the permission to accompany her as a token of forgiveness.  She met his glance, wavered a moment, then bent her head in silence, and each of them was conscious that in some mysterious way, without the interchange of further words, an armistice had been declared between them.