"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 not expect punctuality when a man's in love."
"I know I'm late, but I can assure you"—with a grim smile—"love had little enough to do with it."
Adrienne looked up sharply, struck by the bitter note in his voice.
"Then what had?" she asked. "What has gone wrong, Max? You look fagged out."