“Lord Denysfort, here I am,” said she; and the chinless young man with the large ears gave her his arm and conducted her down the steps.  Lionel looked after her—­bewildered.

CHAPTER XV.

“LET THE STRUCKEN DEER GO WEEP.”

But if Lionel regarded this constant association with Nina—­this unreserved discussion of all their private affairs—­even the sort of authority and guidance he exercised over her at times—­as so simple and natural a thing that it was unnecessary to pause and ask whither it might tend, what about Nina herself?  She was quite alone in England; she had more regard for the future than he had; what if certain wistful hopes, concealed almost from herself, had sprung up amid all this intimate and frankly affectionate companionship?

One morning she and Estelle were walking in to Regent Street, to examine proofs of certain photographs that had been taken of them both (for Clara figured in the shop-windows now, as well as Capitaine Crepin).  Nina was very merry and vivacious on this sufficiently bright forenoon; and to please Estelle she was talking French—­her French being fluent enough, if it was not quite perfect as to accent.  They were passing along Piccadilly, when she stopped at a certain shop.

“Come, I show you something,” she said.

Estelle followed her in.  The moment the shopman saw who it was he did not wait to be questioned.

“It is quite ready, miss; I was just about to send it down.”

He brought forward the double loving-cup that Lionel had given to Nina; and as the young lady took it into her hands she glanced at the rim.  Yes; the inscription was quite right:  “From Leo to Nina”—­that was the simple legend she had had engraved.

“Here is the cup I spoke of, Estelle; is it not beautiful?  And then I would not trouble Lionel to have the inscription made—­I told him I would have it done myself and asked him what the words should be—­behold it!”

The cup was duly admired and handed back to be sent down to Sloane Street; then Estelle and she left the shop together.

“Oh, yes, it is very beautiful,” said the former, continuing to speak in her native tongue, “and a very distinguished present; but there is something still more piquant that he will be buying for you ere long—­can you not guess, Nina?—­no?—­not a wedding-ring?”

The audacity of the question somewhat disconcerted Nina; but she met it with no sham denial, no affected protest.

“He has not spoken to me, Estelle,” Nina said, gravely and simply, “And sometimes I ask myself if it is not better we should remain as we are—­we are such good friends and companions.  We are happy; we have plenty to occupy ourselves with; why undertake more serious cares?  Perhaps that is all that Lionel thinks of it; and, if it is so, I am content.  And then sometimes, Estelle, I ask myself if it would not be better for him to marry—­when