ck, he offered me the job of private secretary, and I've
been with him ever since. I'd no references, either--he just took me
on trust."

"That was very kind of him," said Diana slowly.

"Kind! There isn't one man in a hundred who'll give a chance like that
to a young ass that's played the goat as I did."

"No," agreed Diana. "But," she added, rather low, "he isn't always
kind."

At this moment the door opened, and the subject of their conversation
entered the room. He paused on the threshold, and for an instant Diana
could have sworn that as his eyes met her own a sudden light of
pleasure flashed into their blue depths, only to be immediately
replaced by his usual look of cold indifference. He glanced round the
room, apparently somewhat surprised to find Diana and his secretary its
sole occupants.

"We're all here now except our hostess," observed the latter
cheerfully, following his thought.

"So it seems. I didn't know"--looking across from Jerry to Diana in a
puzzled way--"that you two were acquainted with each other."

"We aren't--at least, we weren't," replied Jerry. "We met by chance,
like two angels that have made a bid for the same cloud."

Errington smiled faintly.

"And did you persuade your--fellow angel--to sing to you?" he asked
drily.

"No. Does she sing?"

"_Does she sing_? . . . Jerry, my young and ignorant friend, let me
introduce you to Miss Diana Quentin, the--"

"Good Lord!" broke in Jerry, his face falling. "Are you Miss
Quentin--_the_ Miss Quentin? Of course I've heard all about
you.--you're going to be the biggest star in the musical firmament--and
here have I been gassing away about my little affairs just as though
you were an ordinary mortal like myself."

Diana was beginning to laugh at the boy's nonsense when Errington cut
in quietly.

"Then you've been making a great mistake, Jerry," he said. "Miss
Quentin doesn't in the least resemble ordinary mortals. She isn't
afflicted by like passions with ourselves, and she doesn't
understand--or forgive them."

The words, uttered as though in jest, held an undercurrent of meaning
for Diana that sent the colour flying up under her clear skin. There
was a bitter taunt in them that none knew better than she how to
interpret.

She winced under it, and a fierce resentment flared up within her that
he should dare to reproach, her--he, who had been the offender from
first to last. Always, now, he seemed to be laughing at