It was as though the sun had all at once gone behind a cloud.
The Baroni's voice fell on her ears, and the disagreeable tension snapped.
"_A rivederci_, little singing-bird.

On Thursday we will bee-gin." The door closed on the _maestro's_ benevolently smiling face, and on that other--the dark, satirical face of Olga Lermontof--and Diana found herself once again breasting the March wind as it came roystering up through Grellingham Place..