CHAPTER XIII
THE FRIEND WHO STOOD BY
As the day fixed for her recital approached, Diana became a prey to intermittent attacks of nerves.
"Supposing I should fail?" she would sometimes exclaim, in a sudden spasm of despair.
Then Baroni would reply quite contentedly:—
"My dear Mees Quentin, you will not fail. God has given you the instrument, and I, Baroni, I haf taught you how to use it. Gran Dio! Fail!" This last accompanied by a snort of contempt.
Or it might be Olga Lermontof to whom Diana would confide her fears. She, equally with the old maestro, derided the possibility of failure, and there was something about her cool assurance of success that always sufficed to steady Diana's nerves, at least for the time being.
"As I have you to accompany me," Diana told her one day, when she was ridiculing the idea of failure, "I may perhaps get through all right. I simply lean on you when I'm singing. I feel like a boat floating on deep water—almost as though I couldn't sink."
"Well, you can't." Miss Lermontof spoke with conviction. "I shan't break down—I could play everything you sing blindfold!—and your voice is . . . Oh, well"—hastily—"I can't talk about your voice. But I believe I could forgive you anything in the world when you sing."
Diana stared at her in surprise. She had no idea that Olga was particularly affected by her singing.