e as an
artiste?"

Max reflected.

"Yes, if I remain in England--which I hope to do. I counted on that
when I asked her to marry me. I think I shall be able to arrange it."

"If! If! Are you going to hang your wife's happiness upon an 'if'?"
Baroni spoke with intense anger. "And 'if' you _cannot_ remain in
England, if you haf to go back--_there_? Can your wife still appear as
a public singer?"

"No," acknowledged Max slowly. "I suppose not."

"No! Her career will be ruined. And all this is the price she will
haf to pay for her--_trust_! Give it up, give it up--set her free."

Max flung himself into a chair, leaning his arms wearily on the table,
and stared straight in front of him, his eyes dark with pain.

"I can't," he said, in a low voice. "Not now. I meant to--I tried
to--but now she has promised and I can't let her go. Good God,
_Maestro_!"--a sudden ring of passion in his tones--"Must I give up
everything? Am I to have nothing in the world? Always to be a tool
and never live an individual man's life of my own?"

Baroni's face softened a little.

"One cannot escape one's destiny," he said sadly. "_Che sara
sara_. . . . But you can spare--her. Tell her the truth, and in
common fairness let her judge for herself--not rush blindfold into such
a web."

Max shook his head.

"You know I can't do that," he replied quietly.

Baroni threw out his arms in despair.

"I would tell her the whole truth myself--but for the memory of one who
is dead." Sudden tears dimmed the fierce old eyes. "For the sake of
that sainted martyr--martyr in life as well as in death--I will hold my
peace."

A half-sad, half-humorous smile flashed across Errington's face.

"We're all of us martyrs--more or less," he observed drily.

"And you wish to add Mees Quentin to the list?" retorted Baroni.
"Well, I warn you, I shall fight against it. I will do everything in
my power to stop this marriage."

Max shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sure you will," he said, smiling faintly. "But--forgive me,
_Maestro_--I don't think you will succeed."

As soon as Baroni had taken his departure, Max called a taxi, and
hurried off to see Adrienne de Gervais. He had arranged to talk over
with her a certain scene in the play he was now writing for her, and
which was to be produced early in the New Year.

Adrienne welcomed him good-humouredly.

"A little late," she observed, glancing at the clock. "But I suppose
one must n