Just then the clock of a neighbouring church chimed the half-hour, and Jerry jumped to his feet in a hurry.

“My hat!  Half-past six!  I must be toddling.  What a squanderer of unconsidered hours you are, Diana! . . .  Well, by-bye, old girl; it’s good to see you back in town.  Then I may tell Miss de Gervais that you’ll sing for her?”

Diana nodded.

“Of course I will.  It will be a sort of preliminary canter for my recital.”

“And when that event comes off, you’ll sail past the post lengths in front of any one else.”

And with that Jerry took his departure.  A minute later Diana heard the front door bang, and from the window watched him striding along the street.  He looked back, just before he turned the corner, and waved his hand cheerily.

“Nice boy!” she murmured, and then set about her unpacking in good earnest.

CHAPTER XII

MAX ERRINGTON’S RETURN

It was the evening of Adrienne’s reception, and Diana was adding a few last touches to her toilette for the occasion.  Bunty had been playing the part of lady’s maid, and now they both stood back to observe the result of their labours.

“You do look nice!” remarked Miss Bunting, in a tone of satisfaction.

Diana glanced half-shyly into the long glass panel of the wardrobe door.  There was something vivid and arresting about her to-night, as though she were tremulously aware that she was about to take the first step along her road as a public singer.  A touch of excitement had added an unwonted brilliance to her eyes, while a faint flush came and went swiftly in her cheeks.

Bunty, without knowing quite what it was that appealed, was suddenly conscious of the sheer physical charm of her.

“You are rather wonderful,” she said consideringly.

A sense of the sharp contrast between them smote Diana almost painfully—­she herself, young and radiant, holding in her slender throat a key that would unlock the doors of the whole world, and beside her the little boarding-house help, equally young, and with all youth’s big demands pent up within her, yet ahead of her only a drab vista of other boarding-houses—­some better, some worse, mayhap—­but always eating the bread of servitude, her only possible way of escape by means of matrimony with some little underpaid clerk.

And what had Bunty done to deserve so poor a lot?  Hers was unquestionably by far the finer character of the two, as Diana frankly admitted to herself.  In truth, the apparent injustices of fate made a riddle hard to read.

“And you,”—­Diana spoke impulsively—­“you are the dearest thing imaginable.  I wish you were coming with me.”

“I should like to hear you sing in those big rooms,” acknowledged Bunty, a little wistfully.

“When I give my recital you shall have a seat in the front row,” Diana promised, as she picked up her gloves and music-case.