“Well, we shall see,” he said non-committally.  “I do not take many pupils.”

Diana’s heart sank yet a little lower, and she felt almost tempted to seek refuge in immediate flight rather than remain to face the inevitable dismissal that she guessed would be her portion.

Baroni, however, put a summary stop to any such wild notions by turning on her with the lightning-like change of mood which she came afterwards to know as characteristic of him.

“You haf brought some songs?” He held out his hand.  “Good.  Let me see them.”

He glanced swiftly through the roll of music which she tendered.

“This one—­we will try this.  Now”—­seating himself at the piano—­“open your mouth, little nightingale, and sing.”

Softly he played the opening bars of the prelude to the song, and Diana watched fascinatedly while he made the notes speak, and sing, and melt into each other with his short stumpy fingers that looked as though they and music would have little enough in common.

“Now then.  Bee-gin.”

And Diana began.  But she was so nervous that she felt as though her throat had suddenly closed up, and only a faint, quavering note issued from her lips, breaking off abruptly in a hoarse croak.

Baroni stopped playing.

“Tchut! she is frightened,” he said, and laid an encouraging hand on her shoulder.  “But do not be frightened, my dear.  You haf a pree-ty face; if your voice is as pree-ty as your face you need not haf fear.”

Diana was furious with herself for failing at the critical moment, and even more angry at Baroni’s speech, in which she sensed a suggestion of the tolerance extended to the average drawing-room singer of mediocre powers.

“I don’t want to have a pretty voice!” she broke out, passionately.  “I wouldn’t say thank you for it.”

And anger having swallowed up her nervousness, she opened her mouth—­and her throat with it this time?—­and let out the full powers that were hidden within her nice big larynx.

When she ceased, Baroni closed the open pages of the song, and turning on his stool, regarded her for a moment in silence.

“No,” he said at last, dispassionately.  “It is certainly not a pree-ty voice.”

To Diana’s ears there was such a tone of indifference, such an air of utter finality about the brief speech, that she felt she would have been eternally grateful now could she only have passed the low standard demanded by the possession of even a merely “pretty” voice.

“So this is the voice you bring me to cultivate?” continued the maestro.  “This that sounds like the rumblings of a subterranean earthquake?  Boom! boo-o-om!  Like that, nicht wahr?”

Diana crimsoned, and, feeling her knees giving way beneath her, sank into the nearest chair, while Baroni continued to stare at her.

“Then—­then you cannot take me as a pupil?” she said faintly.