"It is usually about—about people," said Diana unsteadily. "I—I am afraid I am a monopolist—"
"My word, but you people are interested in each other," said Philip Barrison, suddenly appearing beside them. "Just lift your eyes."
They looked up and saw the moon rising majestically above the hill-road, and the cove beginning to glitter.
"Now that mustn't make any difference," said Mrs. Wilbur firmly. "The moon won't run away and Mr. Barrison has consented to sing for us."
"The minutes are going so fast, so fast," thought Diana, "and there will be no more."
Mrs. Wilbur herded her group together and convoyed them to the music-room.
"This is really an especial treat for Mr. Wilbur," she said to Philip. "You know he is the only one of us who hasn't heard you."
"And you needn't imagine," added Mr. Wilbur, "that you are singing for the impresario of the Metropolitan, either. So long as I am the chief beneficiary to-night, it is only fair to tell you, Barrison, that musically I am very despicable. 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and 'Annie Laurie,' are where I am. So don't waste any moderne stuff on me."
Philip smiled as he moved to the piano, and the company chose their places. Mrs. Wilbur took a seat beside her husband, enveloped in the anticipatory glow of the matinée girl.
"I want to be where I can hold your hand if I need to, dear," she said. Her husband glanced at Diana, flushed and grave, as she placed herself on a low stool near the door, then back at the upstanding white figure beside the piano.