A tap sounded at the door.

“Are you ready?” inquired Olga Lermontof a voice from outside.

Bunty opened the door.

“Oh, come in, Miss Lermontof.  Yes, Miss Quentin is quite ready, and I must run away now.”

Olga came in and stood for a moment looking at Diana.  Then she deliberately stepped close to her, so that their reflections showed side by side in the big mirror.

“Black and white angels—­quite symbolical,” she observed, with a short laugh.

She was dressed entirely in black, and her sable figure made a startling foil to Diana’s slender whiteness.

“Nervous?” she asked laconically, noticing the restless tapping of the other’s foot.

“I believe I am,” replied Diana, smiling a little.

“You needn’t be.”

“I should be terrified if anyone else were accompanying me.  But, somehow, I think you always give me confidence when I’m singing.”

“Probably because I’m always firmly convinced of your ultimate success.”

“No, no.  It isn’t that.  It’s because you’re the most perfect accompanist any one could have.”

Miss Lermontof swept her a mocking curtsey.

“Mille remerciments!” Then she laughed rather oddly.  “I believe you still have no conception of the glory of your voice, you queer child.”

“Is it really so good?” asked Diana, with the genuine artist’s craving to be reassured.

Olga Lermontof looked at her speculatively.

“I suppose you can’t understand it at present,” she said, after a pause.  “You will, though, when you’ve given a few concerts and seen its effect upon the audience.  Now, come along; it’s time we started.”

They found Adrienne’s rooms fairly full, but not in the least overcrowded.  The big double doors between the two drawing-rooms had been thrown open, and the tide of people flowed back and forth from one room to the other.  A small platform had been erected at one end, and as Diana and Miss Lermontof entered, a French diseuse was just ascending it preparatory to reciting in her native tongue.

The recitation—­vivid, accompanied by the direct, expressive gesture for which Mademoiselle de Bonvouloir was so famous—­was followed at appropriate intervals by one or two items of instrumental music, and then Diana found herself mounting the little platform, and a hush descended anew upon the throng of people, the last eager chatterers twittering into silence as Olga Lermontof struck the first note of the song’s prelude.

Diana was conscious of a small sea of faces all turned towards her, most of them unfamiliar.  She could just see Adrienne smiling at her from the back of the room, and near the double doors Jerry was standing next a tall man whose back was towards the platform as he bent to move aside a chair that was in the way.  The next moment he had straightened himself and turned round, and with a sudden, almost agonising leap of the heart Diana saw that it was Max Errington.