_A propos_, we had always thought (until circumstances proved us hopelessly wrong) that the fortunate man, whose gain has been such a loss to the musical world, seemed born to write plays for a certain charming actress--and she to play the part which he assigned her." Diana showed the paragraph to Max, who frowned as he read it, and finally tore the newspaper in which it had appeared across and across, flinging the pieces into the grate.
Then he turned and laid his hands on Diana's shoulders, gazing searchingly into her face.
"Have you felt--anything of what that paragraph suggests ?" he demanded.
"Am I taking too much from you, Diana?
I love to keep you to myself--not to have to share you with the world, but I won't stand in your light, or hold you back if you wish to go--not even"-- with a wry smile--"if it should mean your absence on a tour." "Silly boy!" Diana patted his head reprovingly.

"I don't _want_ to sing in public--at least, not now, not yet.

Later on, I dare say, I shall like to take it up again.

And as for leaving you and going on tour"-- laughingly--"the latter half of the paragraph should serve as a warning to me not to think of such a thing!" To her surprise Max did not laugh with her.

Instead, he answered coldly:-- "I hope you have more sense than to pay attention to what any damned newspaper may have to say about me--or about Miss de Gervais either." "Why, Max,--Max--" Diana stared at him in dismay, flushing a little.