Presently there came sounds of clapping from the body of the hall; some of the audience were growing impatient, and the news that there was a packed house filtered into the artistes’ room.  Almost as in a dream Diana watched Kirolski lift his violin from its cushiony bed and run his fingers lightly over the strings in a swift arpeggio.  Then he tightened his bow and rubbed the resin along its length of hair, while Olga Lermontof looked through a little pile of music for the duet for violin and piano with which the recital was to commence.

The outbreaks of clapping from in front grew more persistent, culminating in a veritable roar of welcome as Kirolski led the pianist on to the platform.  Then came a breathless, expectant silence, broken at last by the stately melody of the first movement.

To Diana it seemed as though the duet were very quickly over, and although the applause and recalls were persistent, no encore was given.  Then she saw Olga Lermontof mounting the platform steps preparatory to accompanying Kirolski’s solo, and with a sudden violent reaction from her calm composure she realised that the following item on the programme must be the first group of her own songs.

For an instant the room swayed round her, then with a little gasp she clutched Baroni’s arm.

“I can’t do it! . . .  I can’t do it!” Her voice was shaking, and every drop of colour had drained away from her face.

Baroni turned instantly, his eyes full of concern.

“My dear, but that is nonsense.  You cannot help doing it—­you know those songs inside out and upside down.  You need haf no fear.  Do not think about it at all.  Trust your voice—­it will sing what it knows.”

But Diana still clung helplessly to his arm, shivering from head to foot, and Madame de Louvigny hurried across the room and joined her assurances to those of the old maestro.  She also added a liqueur-glass of brandy to her soothing, encouraging little speeches, but Diana refused the former with a gesture of repugnance, and seemed scarcely to hear the latter.  She was dazed by sheer nervous terror, and stood there with her hands tightly clasped together, her body rigid and taut with misery.

Baroni was nearly demented.  If she should fail to regain her nerve the whole concert would he a disastrous fiasco.  Possible headlines from the morrow’s newspapers danced before his eyes:  “NERVOUS COLLAPSE OF MISS DIANA QUENTIN,” “SIGNOR BARONI’S NEW PRIMA DONNA FAILS TO MATERIALISE.”

“Diavolo!” he exclaimed distractedly.  “But what shall we do?  What shall we do?”

“What is the matter?”

At the sound of the cool, level tones the little agitated group of three in the artistes’ room broke asunder, and Baroni hurried towards the newcomer.

“Mr. Errington, we are in despair—­” And with a gesture towards Diana he briefly explained the predicament.