"Well?" queried Max, reading the doubt in Diana's eyes.
"I'm afraid I couldn't engage any one else to accompany me," she said
at last. "You see, Olga is Baroni's chosen accompanist, and--it might
make trouble."
A curious expression crossed his face.
"Yes," he agreed slowly. "It might--make trouble, as you say. Well,
why not ask Joan to stay with you for a time--to counterbalance
matters?"
"Excellent suggestion!" exclaimed Diana, her spirits going up with a
bound. Joan was always so satisfactory and cheerful and commonplace
that she felt as though her mere presence in the house would serve to
dispel the vague, indefinable atmosphere of suspicion that seemed
closing round her. "I'll write to her at once."
"Yes, do. If she can come next month, she will be here for the first
night of 'Mrs. Fleming's Husband.'"
Diana went away to write her letter, while Max remained pacing
thoughtfully up and down the room, tapping restlessly with his fingers
on his chest as he walked. His face showed signs of fatigue--the hard
work in connection with the production of his play was telling on
him--and since the brief interview with his wife, a new look of
anxiety, an alert, startled expression, had dawned in his eyes.
He seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he paced to and
fro. At last, apparently, he came to a decision.
"I'll do it," he said aloud.
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