Diana, accustomed to the
trained perfection of Olga Lermontof, found herself considerably
handicapped, and her rendering of the song in question, Saint-Saens'
_Amour, viens aider_, left a good deal to be desired in consequence--a
fact of which no one was more conscious than she herself.
But the voice! As the full rich notes hung on the air, vibrant with that
indescribably thrilling quality which seems the prerogative of the
contralto, Errington recognised at once that here was a singer destined
to make her mark. The slight surprise which he had evinced on first
learning that she was a pupil of the great Baroni vanished instantly. No
master could be better fitted to have the handling of such a voice--and
certainly, he added mentally, Joan Stair was a ludicrously inadequate
accompanist, only to be excused by her frank acknowledgment of the fact.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Di," she said at the conclusion of the song. "But
I really can't manage the accompaniment."
Errington rose and crossed the room to the piano.
"Will you allow me to take your place?" he said pleasantly. "That is, if
Miss Quentin permits? It is hard lines to be suddenly called upon to
read accompaniments if you are not accustomed to it."
"Oh, do you play?" exclaimed Joan, vacating her seat gladly. "Then
please do. I feel as if I were committing murder when I stumble through
Diana's songs.
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