Diana wondered how many other aspirants to fame had lingered like herself
upon that doorstep, their hearts beating high with hope, only to descend
the white-washed steps a brief hour later with the knowledge that from
the standpoint of the musical profession their voices were useless for
all practical purposes, and with their pockets lighter by two guineas,
the _maestro's_ fee for an opinion.
The wind swept up the street again and Diana shivered, her teeth
chattering partly with cold but even more with nervousness. This was a
bad preparation for the coming interview, and with an irritation born of
despair she pressed the bell-button to such good purpose that she could
hear footsteps approaching, almost before the trill of the bell had
vibrated into silence.
An irreproachable man-servant, with the face of a sphinx, opened the door.
Diana tried to speak, failed, then, moistening her lips, jerked out the
words:--
"Signor Baroni?"
"Have you an appointment?" came the relentless inquiry, and Diana could
well imagine how inexorably the greatly daring who had come on chance
would be turned away.
"Yes--oh, yes," she stammered. "For three o'clock--Miss Diana Quentin."
"Come this way, please." The man stood aside for her to enter, and a
minute later she found herself following him through a narrow hall to the
door of a room whence issued the sound of a softly-played pianoforte
accompaniment.
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