iet
gravity and steadfast decision.

"Dear, I am coming with you. The singing"--smiling a little
tremulously--"doesn't count--against love."

Max made a sudden movement as though to take her in his arms, then
checked himself as suddenly.

"No," he said quietly. "You can't come with me. It would be
impossible--out of the question. You haven't realised all it would
entail. After being a famous singer--to become merely a private
gentlewoman--a lady of a little unimportant Court! The very idea is
absurd. Always you would miss the splendour of your life, the triumphs,
the being feted and made much of--everything that your singing has
brought you. It would be inevitable. And I couldn't endure to see the
regret growing in your eyes day by day. Oh, my dear, don't think I don't
realise the generosity of the thought--and bless you for it a thousand
times! But I won't let you pay with the rest of your life for a
heaven-kind impulse of the moment."

His words fell on Diana's consciousness, each one weighted with a world
of significance, for she knew, even as she listened, that he spoke but
the bare truth.

Very quietly she moved away from him and stood by the chimney-piece,
staring down into the grate where the embers lay dying. It seemed to
typify what her life would be, shorn of the glamour with which her
glorious voice had decked it. It would be as though one had plucked out
the glowing heart of a fire, leaving only ashes--dead ashes of
remembrance.

And in exchange for the joyous freedom of Bohemia, the happy brotherhood
of artistes, there would be the deadly, daily ceremonial of a court, the
petty jealousies and intrigues of a palace!

Very clearly Diana saw what the choice involved, and with that clear
vision came the realisation that here was a sacrifice which she, who had
so profaned love's temple, could yet make at the foot of the altar. And
within her grew and deepened the certainty that no sacrifice in the world
is too great to make for the sake of love, except the sacrifice of honour.

Here at last was something she could give to the man she loved. She need
not go to him with empty hands. . . .

She turned again to her husband, and her eyes were radiant with the same
soft shining that had lit them when he had first come to her in answer to
her singing.

"Dear," she said, and her voice broke softly. "Take me with you. Oh,
but you must think me very slow and stupid not to have learned--yet--w