“For”—­as she told them—­“if I fail, it will be nice to have you two dear people to console me, and if I succeed, I shall be just in the right mood to take a holiday and play about with you both.  Whereas until my fate is sealed, one way or the other, I shall be like a bear with a sore head.”

But when the day actually arrived her nervousness completely vanished, and she drove down to the hall composedly as though she were about to appear at her fiftieth concert rather than at her first.  Olga Lermontof regarded her with some anxiety.  She would have preferred her to show a little natural nervous excitement beforehand; there would be less danger of a sudden attack of stage-fright at the last moment.

Baroni was in the artistes’ room when they arrived, outwardly cool, but inwardly seething with mingled pride and excitement and vicarious apprehension.  He hurried forward to greet them, shaking Diana by both hands and then leading her up to the great French pianist, Madame Berthe Louvigny.

The latter was a tall, grave-looking woman, with a pair of the most lustrous brown eyes Diana had ever seen.  They seemed to glow with a kind of inward fire under the wide brow revealed beneath the sweep of her dark hair.

“So thees ees your wonder-pupil, Signor,” she said, her smile radiating kindness and good-humour.  “Mademoiselle, I weesh you all the success that I know Signor Baroni hopes for you.”

She talked very rapidly, with a strong foreign accent, and her gesture was so expressive that one felt it was almost superfluous to add speech to the quick, controlled movement.  Hands, face, shoulders—­she seemed to speak with her whole body, yet without conveying any impression of restlessness.  There was not a single meaningless movement; each added point to the rapid flow of speech, throwing it into vivid relief like the shading of a picture.

While she was still chatting to Diana, a slender man with bright hair tossed back over a finely shaped head came into the artistes’ room, carrying in his hand a violin-case which he deposited on the table with as much care as though it were a baby.  He shook hands with Olga Lermontof, and then Baroni swept him into his net.

“Kirolski, let me present you to Miss Quentin.  She will one day stand amongst singers where you stand amongst the world’s violinists.”

Kirolski bowed, and glanced smilingly from Baroni to Diana.

“I’ve no doubt Miss Quentin will do more than that,” he said.  “A friend of mine heard her sing at Miss de Gervais’ reception not long ago, and he has talked of nothing else ever since.  I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Quentin.”  And he bowed again.

Diana was touched by the simple, unaffected kindness of the two great artistes who were to assist at her recital.  It surprised her a little; she had anticipated the disparaging, almost inimical attitude towards a new star so frequently credited to professional musicians, and had steeled herself to meet it with indifference.  She forgot that when you are at the top of the tree there is little cause for envy or heart-burning, and graciousness becomes an easy habit.  It is in the struggle to reach the top that the ugly passions leap into life.