"To Art? Yes. But she's for me, too, thank God! Dear old friend, you need not look so anxious and concerned. I've no wish to interfere with Diana's professional work. You shall have her voice"--smiling--"I'll be content to hold her heart." But there was no answering smile on Baroni's lips. "_Does she know--everything_?" he asked sternly. Max shook his head. "No. How could she? . . . _You_ must realise the impossibility of that," he answered slowly. "And you think it right to let her marry you in ignorance?" Max hesitated. Then-- "She trusts me," he said at last. "Pish! For how long? . . . When she sees daily under her eyes things that she cannot explain, unaccountable things, how long will she remain satisfied, I ask you? And then will begin unhappiness." Errington stiffened. "And what has our--supposititious--unhappiness to do with you, Signor Baroni?" he asked haughtily. "_Your_ unhappiness? Nothing. It is the price you must pay--your inheritance. But hers? Everything. Tears, fretting, vexation--and that beautiful voice, that perfect organ, may be impaired. Think! Think what you are doing! Just for your own personal happiness you are risking the voice of the century, the voice that will give pleasure to tens of thousands--to millions. You are committing a crime against Art." Max smiled in spite of himself. "Truly, _Maestro_, I had not thought of it like that," he admitted. "But I think her faith in me will carry us through," he added confidently. "Never! Never! Women are not made like that." "And perhaps, later on, if things go well, I shall be able to tell her all." "And much good that will do! _Diavolo_! When the time comes that things go well--if it ever does come--" "It will. It shall," said Max firmly. "Well, if it does--I ask you, can she then continue her life 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.