"He must go back," he answered. "The gods have decreed him outcast from life's pleasant places; he is ordained to wander alone--always." Diana drew her hand suddenly away from his, 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 particularly affected by her singing. "It's rather absurd, isn't it?" continued the Russian, a mocking light in her eyes that somehow reminded Diana of Max Errington. "But there it is. A little triangular box in your throat and a breath of air from your lungs--and immediately you hold one's heart in your hands!"