's Husband" went forward in good earnest.

They had not been back in town a week before Diana realised that, as the
wife of a dramatist on the eve of the production of a play, she must be
prepared to cede her prior right in her husband to the innumerable people
who claimed his time on matters relating to the forthcoming production,
and, above all, to the actress who was playing the leading part in it.

And it was in respect of this latter demand that Diana found the
matrimonial shoe begin to pinch. To her, it seemed as though Adrienne
were for ever 'phoning Max to come and see her, and invariably he set
everything else aside--even Diana herself, if needs be--and obeyed her
behest.

"I can't see why Adrienne wants to consult you so often," Diana protested
one day. "She is perpetually ringing you up to go round to Somervell
Street--or if it's not that, then she is writing to you."

Max laughed her protest aside.

"Well, there's a lot to consult about, you see," he said vaguely.

"So it seems. I shall be glad when it is all finished and I have you to
myself again. When will the play be on?"

"About the middle of October," he replied, fidgeting restlessly with the
papers that strewed his desk. They were talking in his own particular
den, and Diana's eyes ruefully followed the restless gesture.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "you want me to go?"

"Well"--apologetically--"I have a lot to attend to this morning. Will
you send Jerry to me--do you mind, dearest?"

"It wouldn't make much difference if I did," she responded grimly, as she
went towards the door.

Max looked after her thoughtfully in silence. When she had gone, he
leaned his head rather wearily upon his hand.

"It's better so," he muttered. "Better she should think it's only the
play that binds me to Adrienne."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE APPROACHING SHADOW

Diana gathered up her songs and slowly dropped them into her
music-case, while Baroni stared at her with a puzzled, brooding look in
his eyes.

At last he spoke:--

"You are throwing away the great gift God has given you. First, you
will take no more engagements, and now--what is it? Where is your
voice?"

Diana, conscious of having done herself less than justice at the lesson
which was just concluded, shook her head.

"I don't know," she said simply. "I don't seem able to sing now,
somehow."

Baroni shrugged his shoulders.

"You are fretting," he declared. "And so the voice