“I think he got them,” replied Diana crisply, and then stopped, aghast at her own temerity.  She glanced anxiously at Baroni to see if he had resented her remark, only to find him surveying her with a radiant smile and looking exactly like a large, pleased child.

“We shall get on, the one with the other,” he observed contentedly.  “Yes, we shall get on.  And now—­who are you?  I do not remember names”—­with a terrific roll of his R’s—­“but you haf a very pree-ty face—­and I never forget a pree-ty face.”

“I’m—­I’m Diana Quentin,” she blurted out, nervousness once more overpowering her as she realised that the moment of her ordeal was approaching.  “I’ve come to have my voice tried.”

Baroni picked up a memorandum book from his table, turning over the pages till he came to her name.

“Ach!  I remember now.  Miss Waghorne—­my old pupil sent you.  She has been teaching you, isn’t it so?”

Diana nodded.

“Yes, I’ve had a few lessons from her, and she hoped that possibly you would take me as a pupil.”

It was out at last—­the proposal which now, in the actual presence of the great man himself, seemed nothing less than a piece of stupendous presumption.

Signor Baroni’s eyes roamed inquiringly over the face and figure of the girl before him—­quite possibly querying as to whether or no she possessed the requisite physique for a singer.  Nevertheless, the great master was by no means proof against the argument of a pretty face.  There was a story told of him that, on one occasion, a girl with an exceptionally fine voice had been brought to him, some wealthy patroness having promised to defray the expenses of her training if Baroni would accept her as a pupil.  Unfortunately, the girl was distinctly plain, with a quite uninteresting plainness of the pasty, podgy description, and after he had heard her sing, the maestro, first dismissing her from the room, had turned to the lady who was prepared to stand sponsor for her, and had said, with an inimitable shrug of his massive shoulders:—­

“The voice—­it is all right.  But the girl—­heavens, madame, she is of an ugliness!  And I cannot teach ugly people.  She has the face of a peeg—­please take her away.”

But there was little fear that a similar fate would befall Diana.  Her figure, though slight with the slenderness of immaturity, was built on the right lines, and her young, eager face, in its frame of raven hair, was as vivid as a flower—­its clear pallor serving but to emphasise the beauty of the straight, dark brows and of the scarlet mouth with its ridiculously short upper-lip.  Her eyes were of that peculiarly light grey which, when accompanied, as hers were, by thick black lashes, gives an almost startling impression each time the lids are lifted, an odd suggestion of inner radiance that was vividly arresting.

An intense vitality, a curious shy charm, the sensitiveness inseparable from the artist nature—­all these, and more, Baroni’s experienced eye read in Diana’s upturned face, but it yet remained for him to test the quality of her vocal organs.