An old lady with very white hair and a reputation for a witty tongue
that had been dipped in vinegar came up to Diana as she descended from
the platform.
"My dear," she said, and the keen old eyes were suddenly blurred and
dim. "I want to thank you. One is apt to forget--when one is very
lonely--that we've most of us worn love's crown just once--if only for
a few moments of our lives. . . . And it's good to be reminded of it,
even though it may hurt a little."
"That was the Dowager Duchess of Linfield," murmured Olga, when the old
lady had moved away again. "They say she was madly in love with an
Italian opera singer in the days of her youth. But, of course, at that
time he was quite unknown and altogether ineligible, so she married the
late Duke, who was old enough to be her father. By the time he died
the opera singer was dead, too."
That was Diana's first taste of the power of a beautiful voice to
unlock the closed chambers of the heart where lie our hidden
memories--the long pain of years, sometimes unveiled to those whose
gifts appeal directly to the emotions. It sobered her a little. This,
then, she thought, this leaf of rue that seemed to bring the sadness of
the world so close, was interwoven with the crown of laurel.
"Won't you say how do you do to me, Miss Quentin? I've been deputed by
Miss de Gervais to see that you have some supper after breaking all our
hearts with your singing.
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