Presently she saw the French window of the dining-room open, and Max
Errington step across the threshold and come swiftly over the lawn
towards her.
"I see you are bent on courting rheumatic fever--to say nothing of a sore
throat," he said quietly, "and I've come to take you indoors."
Diana was instantly filled with a perverse desire to remain where she was.
"I'm not in the least cold, thank you," she replied stiffly, "And--I like
it out here."
"You may not be cold," he returned composedly. "But I'm quite sure your
feet are damp. Come along."
He put his arm under hers, impelling her gently in the direction of the
house, and, rather to her own surprise, she found herself accompanying
him without further opposition.
Arrived at the house, he knelt down and, taking up her foot in his hand,
deliberately removed the little pointed slipper.
"There," he said conclusively, exhibiting its sole, dank with dew. "Go
up and put on a pair of dry shoes and then come down and sing to me."
And once again she found herself meekly obeying him.
By the time she had returned to the drawing-room, Pobs and Errington were
choosing the songs they wanted her to sing, while Joan was laughingly
protesting that they had selected all those with the most difficult
accompaniments.
"However, I'll do my best, Di," she added, as she seated herself at the
piano.
Joan's "best" as a pianist did not amount to very much at any time, and
she altogether lacked that intuitive understanding and sympathy which is
the _sine qua non_ of a good accompanist.
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