So that the end of her second year in London found Diana still little more than an impetuous, impulsive girl, possessed of a warm, undisciplined nature, and of an unconscious desire to fulfil her being along the most natural and easy lines, while in spirit she leaped forward to the time when she should be plunged into professional life.

The whole of her training under Baroni, with the big future that it held, tended to give her a somewhat egotistical outlook, an instinctive feeling that everything must of necessity subordinate itself to her demands—­an excellent foundation, no doubt, on which to build up a reputation as a famous singer in a world where people are apt to take you very much at your own valuation, but a poor preparation for the sacrifices and self-immolation that love not infrequently demands.

Above all else, this second year of study had brought in fullest measure the development and enriching of her voice.  Baroni had schooled it with the utmost care, keeping always in view his purpose that the coming June should witness her debut, and Diana, catching fire from his enthusiasm, had answered to every demand he had made upon her.

Her voice was now something to marvel at.  It had matured into a rich contralto of amazing compass, and with a peculiar thrilling quality about it which gripped and held you almost as though some one had laid a hand upon your heart.  Baroni hugged himself as he realised what a furore in the musical world this voice would create when at last he allowed the silence to be broken.  Already there were whispers flying about of the wonderful contralto he was training, of whom it was rumoured that she would have the whole world at her feet from the moment that Baroni produced her.

The old maestro had his plans all cut and dried.  Early in June, just when the season should be in full swing, there was to be a concert—­a recital with only Kirolski, the Polish violinist, and Madame Berthe Louvigny, the famous French pianist, to assist.  Those two names alone would inevitably draw a big crowd of all the musical people who mattered, and Diana’s golden voice would do the rest.

This was to be the solitary concert for the season, but, to whet the appetite of society, Diana was also to appear at a single big reception—­“Baroni won’t look at anything less than a ducal house with Royalty present,” as Jerry banteringly asserted—­and then, while the world was still agape with interest and excitement, the singer was to be whisked away to Crailing for three months’ holiday, and to accept no more engagements until the winter.  By that time, Baroni anticipated, people would be feverishly impatient for her reappearance, and the winter campaign would resolve itself into one long trail of glory.