“We aren’t—­at least, we weren’t,” replied Jerry.  “We met by chance, like two angels that have made a bid for the same cloud.”

Errington smiled faintly.

“And did you persuade your—­fellow angel—­to sing to you?” he asked drily.

“No.  Does she sing?”

“Does she sing? . . .  Jerry, my young and ignorant friend, let me introduce you to Miss Diana Quentin, the—­”

“Good Lord!” broke in Jerry, his face falling.  “Are you Miss Quentin—­the Miss Quentin?  Of course I’ve heard all about you.—­you’re going to be the biggest star in the musical firmament—­and here have I been gassing away about my little affairs just as though you were an ordinary mortal like myself.”

Diana was beginning to laugh at the boy’s nonsense when Errington cut in quietly.

“Then you’ve been making a great mistake, Jerry,” he said.  “Miss Quentin doesn’t in the least resemble ordinary mortals.  She isn’t afflicted by like passions with ourselves, and she doesn’t understand—­or forgive them.”

The words, uttered as though in jest, held an undercurrent of meaning for Diana that sent the colour flying up under her clear skin.  There was a bitter taunt in them that none knew better than she how to interpret.

She winced under it, and a fierce resentment flared up within her that he should dare to reproach, her—­he, who had been the offender from first to last.  Always, now, he seemed to be laughing at her, mocking her.  He appeared an entirely different person from the man who had been so careful of her welfare during the eventful journey they had made together.

She lifted her head a little defiantly.

“No,” she said, with significance.  “I certainly don’t understand—­some people.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well,” retorted Errington, unmoved.

Jerry, sensing electricity in the atmosphere, looked troubled and uncomfortable.  He hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about, but it was perfectly clear to him that everything was not quite as it should be between his beloved Max and this new friend, this jolly little girl with the wonderful eyes—­just like a pair of stars, by Jove!—­and, if rumour spoke truly, the even more wonderful voice.

Bashfully murmuring something about “going down to see if Miss de Gervais had come in yet,” he bolted out of the room, leaving Max and Diana alone together.

Suddenly she turned and faced him.

“Why—­why are you always so unkind to me?” she burst out, a little breathlessly.

He lifted his brows.

“I? . . .  My dear Miss Quentin, I have no right to be either kind—­or unkind—­to you.  That is surely the privilege of friends.  And you showed me quite clearly, down at Crailing, that you did not intend to admit me to your friendship.”

“I didn’t,” she exclaimed, and rushed on desperately.  “Was it likely that I should feel anything but gratitude—­and liking for any one who had done as much for me as you had?”