“It is not possible for me to say more.  But be advised, my dear pupil.  Out of my great love for you I say it—­let Max Errington go his way.”

And with those words—­sinister, warning—­ringing in her ears, Diana returned to Brutton Square.

But Baroni was not content to let matters remain as they stood, trusting that his warning would do its work.  He was determined to leave no stone unturned, and he forthwith sought out Errington in his own house and deliberately broached the subject of his engagement to Diana.

Max greeted him affectionately.

“It’s a long while since you honoured me with a visit,” he said, shaking hands.  “I suppose”—­laughingly—­“you come to congratulate me?”

The old man shook his head.

“Far from it.  I haf come to ask you to give her up.”

“To give her up?” repeated Max, in undisguised amazement.

“Yes.  Mees Quentin is not for marriage.  She is dedicated to Art.”

Max smiled indulgently.

“To Art?  Yes.  But she’s for me, too, thank God!  Dear old friend, you need not look so anxious and concerned.  I’ve no wish to interfere with Diana’s professional work.  You shall have her voice”—­smiling—­“I’ll be content to hold her heart.”

But there was no answering smile on Baroni’s lips.

“Does she know—­everything?” he asked sternly.

Max shook his head.

“No.  How could she? . . . You must realise the impossibility of that,” he answered slowly.

“And you think it right to let her marry you in ignorance?”

Max hesitated.  Then—­

“She trusts me,” he said at last.

“Pish!  For how long? . . .  When she sees daily under her eyes things that she cannot explain, unaccountable things, how long will she remain satisfied, I ask you?  And then will begin unhappiness.”

Errington stiffened.

“And what has our—­supposititious—­unhappiness to do with you, Signor Baroni?” he asked haughtily.

“Your unhappiness?  Nothing.  It is the price you must pay—­your inheritance.  But hers?  Everything.  Tears, fretting, vexation—­and that beautiful voice, that perfect organ, may be impaired.  Think!  Think what you are doing!  Just for your own personal happiness you are risking the voice of the century, the voice that will give pleasure to tens of thousands—­to millions.  You are committing a crime against Art.”

Max smiled in spite of himself.

“Truly, Maestro, I had not thought of it like that,” he admitted.  “But I think her faith in me will carry us through,” he added confidently.

“Never!  Never!  Women are not made like that.”

“And perhaps, later on, if things go well, I shall be able to tell her all.”

“And much good that will do! Diavolo!  When the time comes that things go well—­if it ever does come—­”