Her fingers, gripping with unconscious intensity the flowers she held, detached a white rose from the sheaf, and it had barely time to reach the floor before a young man from the audience, eager-eyed, his face pale with excitement, sprang forward and snatched it up from beneath her feet.

In an instant there was an uproar.  Men and women lost their heads and clambered up on to the platform, pressing round the singer, besieging her for a spray of leaves or a flower from the sheaf she carried.  Some even tried to secure a bit of the gold embroidery from off her gown by way of memento.

“Oh, please . . . please . . .”

A crowd that is overwrought, either by anger or enthusiasm, is a difficult thing to handle, and Diana retreated desperately, frightened by the storm she had evoked.  One man was kneeling beside her, rapturously kissing the hem of her gown, and the eager, excited faces, the outstretched hands, the vision of the surging throng below, and the tumult and clamour that filled the concert-hall terrified her.

Suddenly a strong arm intervened between her and the group of enthusiasts who were flocking round her, and she found that she was being quietly drawn aside into safety.  Max Errington’s tall form had interposed itself between her and her too eager worshippers.  With a little gasp of relief she let him lead her down the steps of the platform and back into the comparative calm of the artistes’ room, while two of the ushers hurried forward and dispersed the memento-seekers, shepherding them back into the hall below, so that the concert might continue.

The latter part of the programme was heard with attention, but not even the final duo for violin and piano, exquisite though it was, succeeded in rousing the audience to a normal pitch of fervour again.  Emotion and enthusiasm were alike exhausted, and now that Diana’s share in the recital was over, the big assemblage of people listened to the remaining numbers much as a child, tired with play, may listen to a lullaby—­placidly appreciative, but without overwhelming excitement.

“Well, what did I tell you?” demanded Jerry, triumphantly, of the little party of friends who gathered together for tea in Diana’s sitting-room, when at length the great event of the afternoon was over.  “What did I tell you? . . .  I said Diana would just romp past the post—­all the others nowhere.  And behold!  It came to pass.”

“It’s a good thing Madame Louvigny and Kirolski can’t hear you,” observed Joan sagely.  “They’ve probably got quite nice natures, but you’d strain the forbearance of an early Christian martyr, Jerry.  Besides, you needn’t be so fulsome to Diana; it isn’t good for her.”

Jerry retorted with spirit, and the two drifted into a pleasant little wrangle—­the kind of sparring match by which youths and maidens frequently endeavour to convince themselves, and the world at large, of the purely Platonic nature of their sentiments.