g church chimed the half-hour, and
Jerry jumped to his feet in a hurry.

"My hat! Half-past six! I must be toddling. What a squanderer of
unconsidered hours you are, Diana! . . . Well, by-bye, old girl; it's
good to see you back in town. Then I may tell Miss de Gervais that
you'll sing for her?"

Diana nodded.

"Of course I will. It will be a sort of preliminary canter for my
recital."

"And when that event comes off, you'll sail past the post lengths in
front of any one else."

And with that Jerry took his departure. A minute later Diana heard the
front door bang, and from the window watched him striding along the
street. He looked back, just before he turned the corner, and waved
his hand cheerily.

"Nice boy!" she murmured, and then set about her unpacking in good
earnest.

CHAPTER XII

MAX ERRINGTON'S RETURN

It was the evening of Adrienne's reception, and Diana was adding a few
last touches to her toilette for the occasion. Bunty had been playing
the part of lady's maid, and now they both stood back to observe the
result of their labours.

"You do look nice!" remarked Miss Bunting, in a tone of satisfaction.

Diana glanced half-shyly into the long glass panel of the wardrobe
door. There was something vivid and arresting about her to-night, as
though she were tremulously aware that she was about to take the first
step along her road as a public singer. A touch of excitement had
added an unwonted brilliance to her eyes, while a faint flush came and
went swiftly in her cheeks.

Bunty, without knowing quite what it was that appealed, was suddenly
conscious of the sheer physical charm of her.

"You are rather wonderful," she said consideringly.

A sense of the sharp contrast between them smote Diana almost
painfully--she herself, young and radiant, holding in her slender
throat a key that would unlock the doors of the whole world, and beside
her the little boarding-house help, equally young, and with all youth's
big demands pent up within her, yet ahead of her only a drab vista of
other boarding-houses--some better, some worse, mayhap--but always
eating the bread of servitude, her only possible way of escape by means
of matrimony with some little underpaid clerk.

And what had Bunty done to deserve so poor a lot? Hers was
unquestionably by far the finer character of the two, as Diana frankly
admitted to herself. In truth, the apparent injustices of fate made a
riddle hard to read