She had tripped and stumbled to her knees on the threshold of
the room, and, as she instinctively stretched out her hand to save
herself, the door had swung hack trapping two of her fingers in the
hinge.
A hubbub of dismay arose. Olga was white with pain, and her hand was
so badly squeezed and bruised that it was quite obvious she would be
unable to play any more that day.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Quentin," she murmured faintly.
In her distress about the accident, Diana had for the moment overlooked
the fact that it would affect her personally, but now, as Olga's words
reminded her that the accompanist on whom she placed such utter
reliance would be forced to cede her place to a substitute, her former
nervousness returned with redoubled force. It began to look as though
she would really be unable to appear, and Baroni wrung his hands in
despair.
It was a moment for speedy action. The audience were breaking into
impatient clapping, and from the back of the hall came an undertone of
stamping, and the sound of umbrellas banging on the floor. Errington
turned swiftly to Diana.
"Will you trust me with the accompaniments?" he said, his blue eyes
fixed on hers.
"You?" she faltered.
"Yes. I swear I won't fail you." His voice dropped to a lower note,
but his dominating eyes still held her. "See, you offered me your
friendship. Trust me now. Let me 'stand by,' as a friend should.
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