But Diana still clung helplessly to his arm, shivering from head to foot, and Madame de Louvigny hurried across the room and joined her assurances to those of the old maestro. She also added a liqueur-glass of brandy to her soothing, encouraging little speeches, but Diana refused the former with a gesture of repugnance, and seemed scarcely to hear the latter. She was dazed by sheer nervous terror, and stood there with her hands tightly clasped together, her body rigid and taut with misery.
Baroni was nearly demented. If she should fail to regain her nerve the whole concert would he a disastrous fiasco. Possible headlines from the morrow's newspapers danced before his eyes: "NERVOUS COLLAPSE OF MISS DIANA QUENTIN," "SIGNOR BARONI'S NEW PRIMA DONNA FAILS TO MATERIALISE."
"Diavolo!" he exclaimed distractedly. "But what shall we do? What shall we do?"
"What is the matter?"
At the sound of the cool, level tones the little agitated group of three in the artistes' room broke asunder, and Baroni hurried towards the newcomer.
"Mr. Errington, we are in despair—" And with a gesture towards
Diana he briefly explained the predicament.
Max nodded, his keen eyes considering the shrinking figure leaning against the wall.
"Don't worry, Baroni," he said quietly. "I'll pull her round." Then, as a burst of applause crashed out from the hall, he whispered hastily: "Get Kirolski to give an encore. It will allow her a little more time."
Baroni nodded, and a minute or two later the audience was cheering the violinist's reappearance, whilst Errington strode across the room to Diana's side.
"How d'you do?" he said, holding out his hand exactly as though nothing in the world were the matter. "I thought you'd allow me to come round and wish you luck, so here I am."