and the hasty movement
knocked over the little silver salt-cellar on the table, scattering the
salt on the cloth between them.

"Oh!" she cried, flushing with distress. "I've spilled the salt
between us--we shall quarrel."

The electricity in the atmosphere was gone, and Errington laughed gaily.

"I'm not afraid. See,"--he filled their glasses with wine--"let's
drink to our compact of friendship."

He raised his glass, clinking it gently against hers, and they drank.
But as Diana replaced her glass on the table, she looked once more in a
troubled way at the little heap of salt that lay on the white cloth.

"I wish I hadn't spilled it," she said uncertainly. "It's an ill omen.
Some day we shall quarrel."

Her eyes were grave and brooding, as though some prescience of evil
weighed upon her.

Errington lifted his glass, smiling.

"Far be the day," he said lightly.

But her eyes, meeting his, were still clouded with foreboding.

[1] This song, "The Haven of Memory," has been set to music by Isador
Epstein: published by G. Ricordi & Co., 265 Regent Street, W.

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
partic