"Some day, Diana, you'll be sorry that you chucked one of the best
chaps in the world," he told her, with a fierce young championship that
was rather touching, warring, as it did, with his honest affection for
Diana herself. "Oh! It makes me sick! You two ought to have had such
a splendid life together."
Rather wistfully, Diana asked the Rector if he, too, blamed her
entirely for what had occurred. But Alan Stair's wide charity held no
room for censure.
"My dear," he told her, "I don't think I want to _blame_ either you or
Max. The situation was difficult, and you weren't quite strong enough
to cope with it. That's all. But"--with one of his rare smiles that
flashed out like sunshine after rain--"you haven't reached the end of
the chapter yet."
Diana shook her head.
"I think we have, Pobs. I, for one, shall never reopen the pages. My
musical work is going to fill my life in future."
Stair's eyes twinkled with a quiet humour.
"Sponge cake is filling, my dear, very," he responded. "But it's not
satisfying--like bread."
Since Diana had left her husband, fate had so willed it that they had
never chanced to meet. She had appeared very little in society,
excusing herself on the plea that her professional engagements demanded
all her energies. And certainly, since the immediate and overwhelming
success which she had achieved at Covent Garden, her operatic work had
made immense demands both upon her time and physical strength.
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