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e as an artiste?" Max reflected. "Yes, if I remain in England--which I hope to do. I counted on that when I asked her to marry me. I think I shall be able to arrange it." "If! If! Are you going to hang your wife's happiness upon an 'if'?" Baroni spoke with intense anger. "And 'if' you _cannot_ remain in England, if you haf to go back--_there_? Can your wife still appear as a public singer?" "No," acknowledged Max slowly. "I suppose not." "No! Her career will be ruined. And all this is the price she will haf to pay for her--_trust_! Give it up, give it up--set her free." Max flung himself into a chair, leaning his arms wearily on the table, and stared straight in front of him, his eyes dark with pain. "I can't," he said, in a low voice. "Not now. I meant to--I tried to--but now she has promised and I can't let her go. Good God, _Maestro_!"--a sudden ring of passion in his tones--"Must I give up everything? Am I to have nothing in the world? Always to be a tool and never live an individual man's life of my own?" Baroni's face softened a little. "One cannot escape one's destiny," he said sadly. "_Che sara sara_. . . . But you can spare--her. Tell her the truth, and in common fairness let her judge for herself--not rush blindfold into such a web." Max shook his head. "You know I can't do that," he replied quietly. Baroni threw out his arms in despair. "I would tell her the whole truth myself--but for the memory of one who is dead." Sudden tears dimmed the fierce old eyes. "For the sake of that sainted martyr--martyr in life as well as in death--I will hold my peace." A half-sad, half-humorous smile flashed across Errington's face. "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 n
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