Unfortunately, however, it chanced to be one of those sharply chilly
days to which May occasionally treats us. Baroni frankly detested cold
weather--it upset both his nerves and his temper--and Diana speedily
realised that no excuses would avail to smooth her path on this
occasion.
"Scales," commanded Baroni, and struck a chord.
She began to sing obediently, but at the end of the third scale he
stopped her.
"Bah! It sounds like an elephant coming downstairs! Be-r-r-rump . . .
be-r-r-rump . . . be-r-r-rump . . . br-r-rum! Do not, please, sing as
an elephant walks."
Diana coloured and tried again, but without marked success. She was
genuinely out of practice, and the nervousness with which Baroni's
obvious ill-humour inspired her did not mend matters.
"But what haf you been doing during the holidays?" exclaimed the
_maestro_ at last, his odd, husky voice fierce with annoyance. "There
is no ease---no flexibility. You are as stiff as a rusty hinge. Ach!
But you will haf to work--not play any more."
He frowned portentously, then with a swift change to a more reasonable
mood, he continued:--
"Let us haf some songs--Saint-Saens' _Amour, viens aider_. Perhaps
that will wake you up, _hein_?"
Instead, it carried Diana swiftly back to the Rectory at Crailing, to
the evening when she had sung this very song to Max Errington, with the
unhappy Joan stumbling through the accompaniment.
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