"He--he must go back to the desert?"
Errington bent his head.
"He must go back," he answered. "The gods have decreed him outcast
from life's pleasant places; he is ordained to wander alone--always."
Diana drew her hand suddenly away from his, and the hasty movement
knocked over the little silver salt-cellar on the table, scattering the
salt on the cloth between them.
"Oh!" she cried, flushing with distress. "I've spilled the salt
between us--we shall quarrel."
The electricity in the atmosphere was gone, and Errington laughed gaily.
"I'm not afraid. See,"--he filled their glasses with wine--"let's
drink to our compact of friendship."
He raised his glass, clinking it gently against hers, and they drank.
But as Diana replaced her glass on the table, she looked once more in a
troubled way at the little heap of salt that lay on the white cloth.
"I wish I hadn't spilled it," she said uncertainly. "It's an ill omen.
Some day we shall quarrel."
Her eyes were grave and brooding, as though some prescience of evil
weighed upon her.
Errington lifted his glass, smiling.
"Far be the day," he said lightly.
But her eyes, meeting his, were still clouded with foreboding.
[1] This song, "The Haven of Memory," has been set to music by Isador
Epstein: published by G. Ricordi & Co., 265 Regent Street, W.
CHAPTER XIII
THE FRIEND WHO STOOD BY
As the day fixed for her recital approached, Diana became a prey to
intermittent attacks of nerves.
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