"So it seems. I didn't know"—looking across from Jerry to Diana in a puzzled way—"that you two were acquainted with each other."
"We aren't—at least, we weren't," replied Jerry. "We met by chance, like two angels that have made a bid for the same cloud."
Errington smiled faintly.
"And did you persuade your—fellow angel—to sing to you?" he asked drily.
"No. Does she sing?"
"Does she sing? . . . Jerry, my young and ignorant friend, let me introduce you to Miss Diana Quentin, the—"
"Good Lord!" broke in Jerry, his face falling. "Are you Miss Quentin—the Miss Quentin? Of course I've heard all about you.—you're going to be the biggest star in the musical firmament—and here have I been gassing away about my little affairs just as though you were an ordinary mortal like myself."
Diana was beginning to laugh at the boy's nonsense when Errington cut in quietly.
"Then you've been making a great mistake, Jerry," he said. "Miss Quentin doesn't in the least resemble ordinary mortals. She isn't afflicted by like passions with ourselves, and she doesn't understand—or forgive them."
The words, uttered as though in jest, held an undercurrent of meaning for Diana that sent the colour flying up under her clear skin. There was a bitter taunt in them that none knew better than she how to interpret.