"
She joined the Rector at the far end of the room, adding with a smile:--
"I make a much better audience than performer."
"What shall it be?" said Errington, turning over the pile of songs.
"What you like," returned Diana indifferently. She was rather pale, and
her hand shook a little as she fidgeted restlessly with a sheet of music.
It almost seemed as though the projected change of accompanist were
distasteful to her.
Max laid his own hand over hers an instant.
"Please let me play for you," he said simply.
There was a note of appeal in his voice--rather as if he were seeking to
soften her resentment against him, and would regard the permission to
accompany her as a token of forgiveness. She met his glance, wavered a
moment, then bent her head in silence, and each of them was conscious
that in some mysterious way, without the interchange of further words, an
armistice had been declared between them.
With Errington at the piano the music took on a different aspect. He was
an incomparable accompanist, and Diana, feeling herself supported, and
upborne, sang with a beauty of interpretation, an intensity of feeling,
that had been impossible before. And through it all she was acutely
conscious of Max Errington's proximity--knew instinctively that the
passion of the song was shaking him equally with herself. It was as
though some intangible live wire were stretched between them so that each
could sense the emotion of the other--as though the garment with which we
so persistently conceal our souls from one another's eyes were suddenly
stripped away.
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