appropriate to a _prima donna_, was consummated
by Milling's clever fingers.

Only, this evening, every nerve in Diana's body was quivering in
rebellion.

What was it Olga had said? "_Max is leaving England to-night._" So,
while she was being dressed like a doll for the pleasuring of the
people who had paid to hear her sing, Max was being borne away out of
her ken, out of her existence for ever.

What a farce it all seemed! In a little while she would be singing as
perfectly as usual, bowing and smiling as usual, and not one amongst
the crowded audience would know that in reality it was only the husk of
a woman who stood there before them--the mere outer shell. All that
mattered, the heart and soul of her, was dead. She knew that quite
well. Probably she would feel glad about it in time, she thought,
because when one was dead things didn't hurt any more. It was dying
that hurt. . . .

"Your train, madam."

She started at the sound of Milling's respectful voice. What a
lop-sided thing a civilised sense of values seemed to be! Even when
you had dragged the white robes of your spirit deep in the mire, you
must still be scrupulously careful not to soil the hem of the white
satin that clothed your body.

She almost laughed aloud, then bit the laugh back, picturing Milling's
astonished face. The girl would think she was mad. Perhaps she was.
It didn't matter much, anyway.

Mechanically she held out her arm for Milling to throw the train of her
gown across it, and, picking up her gloves, went slowly downstairs.

Baroni, his face wearing an expression of acute anxiety, was waiting
for her in the hall, restlessly pacing to and fro.

"Ah--h!" His face cleared as by magic when the slender, white-clad
figure appeared round the last bend of the stairway. He had half
feared that at the last moment the strain of the day's emotion might
exact its penalty, and Diana prove unequal to the evening's demands.

To hide his obvious relief, he turned sharply to the maid, who had
followed her mistress downstairs, carrying her opera coat and furs.

"Madame's cloak--make haste!" he commanded curtly.

And when Diana had entered the car, he waved aside the manservant and
himself tucked the big fur rug carefully round her. There was
something rather pathetic, almost maternal, in the old man's care of
her, and Diana's lips quivered.

"Thank you, dear _Maestro_," she said, gently pressing his arm with her
hand.

The