Olga Lermontof paused a moment before replying to Diana’s query.  The she said briefly:—­

“No.  He’s a dramatist.  I shouldn’t allow myself to become too interested in him if I were you.”

She smiled a trifle grimly at Diana’s sudden flush, and her manner indicated that, as far as she was concerned, the subject was closed.

Diana felt an inward conviction that Miss Lermontof knew much more concerning Max Errington than she chose to admit, and when she fell asleep that night it was to dream that she and Errington were trying to find each other through the gloom of a thick fog, whilst all the time the dark-browed, sinister face of Olga Lermontof kept appearing and disappearing between them, smiling tauntingly at their efforts.

CHAPTER IX

A CONTEST OF WILLS

Diana was sitting in Baroni’s music-room, waiting, with more or less patience, for a singing lesson.  The old maestro was in an unmistakable ill-humour this morning, and he had detained the pupil whose lesson preceded her own far beyond the allotted time, storming at the unfortunate young man until Diana marvelled that the latter had sufficient nerve to continue singing at all.

In a whirl of fury Baroni informed him that he was exactly suited to be a third-rate music-hall artiste—­the young man, be it said, was making a special study of oratorio—­and that it was profanation, for any one with so incalculably little idea of the very first principles of art to attempt to interpret the works of the great masters, together with much more of a like explosive character.  Finally, he dismissed him abruptly and turned to Diana.

“Ah—­Mees Quentin.”  He softened a little.  He had a great affection for this promising pupil of his, and welcomed her with a smile.  “I am seek of that young man with his voice of an archangel and his brains of a feesh! . . .  So!  You haf come back from your visit to the country?  And how goes it with the voice?”

“I expect I’m a bit rusty after my holiday,” she replied diplomatically, fondly hoping to pave the way for more lenient treatment than had been accorded to the luckless student of oratorio.

Unfortunately, however, it chanced to be one of those sharply chilly days to which May occasionally treats us.  Baroni frankly detested cold weather—­it upset both his nerves and his temper—­and Diana speedily realised that no excuses would avail to smooth her path on this occasion.

“Scales,” commanded Baroni, and struck a chord.

She began to sing obediently, but at the end of the third scale he stopped her.

“Bah!  It sounds like an elephant coming downstairs!  Be-r-r-rump . . . be-r-r-rump . . . be-r-r-rump . . . br-r-rum!  Do not, please, sing as an elephant walks.”

Diana coloured and tried again, but without marked success.  She was genuinely out of practice, and the nervousness with which Baroni’s obvious ill-humour inspired her did not mend matters.