"Then please do.

I feel as if I were committing murder when I stumble through Diana's songs." She joined the Rector at the far end of the room, adding with a smile:-- "I make a much better audience than performer." "What shall it be ?" said Errington, turning over the pile of songs.
"What you like," returned Diana indifferently.

She was rather pale, and her hand shook a little as she fidgeted restlessly with a sheet of music.
It almost seemed as though the projected change of accompanist were distasteful to her.
Max laid his own hand over hers an instant.
"Please let me play for you," he said simply.
There was a note of appeal in his voice--rather as if he were seeking to soften her resentment against him, and would regard the permission to accompany her as a token of forgiveness.

She met his glance, wavered a moment, then bent her head in silence, and each of them was conscious that in some mysterious way, without the interchange of further words, an armistice had been declared between them.
With Errington at the piano the music took on a different aspect.

He was an incomparable accompanist, and Diana, feeling herself supported, and upborne, sang with a beauty of interpretation, an intensity of feeling, that had been impossible before.