There was a tense look in Max's face as the last note trembled into
silence, and Diana, meeting his glance, flushed rosily.
"I can't sing any more," she said, her voice uneven.
"No."
He added nothing to the laconic negative, but his eyes held hers
remorselessly.
Then Pobs' cheerful tones fell on their ears and the taut moment passed.
"Di, you amazing child!" he exclaimed delightfully. "Where did you find
a voice like that? I realise now that we've been entertaining genius
unawares all this time. Joan, my dear, henceforth two commonplace bodies
like you and me must resign ourselves to taking a back seat."
"I don't mind," returned Joan philosophically. "I think I was born with
a humdrum nature; a quiet life was always my idea of bliss."
"Sing something else, Di," begged Stair. But Diana shook her head.
"I'm too tired, Pobs," she said quietly. Turning abruptly to Errington
she continued: "Will you play instead?"
Max hesitated a moment, then resumed his place at the piano, and, after a
pause, the three grave notes with which Rachmaninoff's wonderful
"Prelude" opens, broke the silence.
It was speedily evident that Errington was a musician of no mean order;
indeed, many a professional reputation has been based on a less solid
foundation. The Rachmaninoff was followed by Chopin, Tchaikowsky,
Debussy, and others of the modern school, and when finally he dropped his
hands from the piano, laughingly declaring that he must be thinking of
taking his departure before he played them all to sleep, Joan burst out
bluntly:--
"We understood you were a dramatist, Mr.
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