There was a bright, quick look of pleasure in Nina’s eyes—­but only for an instant.

“No, no, Leo,” she said, with lowered lashes.  “That is not right.  Miss Burgoyne and you are the two principal people in the theatre—­you are on the stage equals—­off the stage also you are her friend—­you must take her to Richmond, Leo.”

“Miss Burgoyne?”

But here the door of Miss Burgoyne’s room was suddenly opened, and the voice of the young lady herself was heard, in unmistakably angry tones: 

“Oh, bother your headache!  I suppose it was your headache made you split my blue jacket in two, and I suppose it was your headache made you smash my brooch last night—­I wonder what some women were born for!” And therewithal the charming Grace Mainwaring made her appearance; and not a word—­hardly a look—­did the indignant small lady choose to bestow on either Lionel or Nina as she brushed by them on her way up to the wings.

Yes, here he was in the theatre again, with all its trivial distractions and interests, and also its larger excitements and ambitions and rewards, not the least of which was the curious fascination he found in holding a great audience hushed and enthralled, listening breathlessly to every far-reaching, passionate note.  Then his reappearance on the stage brought him a renewal of all the friendly little attentions and hospitalities that had been interrupted by his leaving for Scotland; for if certain of his fashionable acquaintance were still away at their country houses, there were plenty of others who had returned to town.  Club life had begun again, too.  But most of all, at this time, Lionel was disposed to enjoy that quiet and gentle companionship with Nina, which was so simple and frank and unreserved.  He could talk to her freely, on all subjects save one—­and that he was trying to put away from himself in these altered circumstances.  He and she had a community of interests; there was never any lack of conversation—­whether he were down in Sloane Street, drinking tea and trying over new music with her, or walking in with Miss Girond and her to the theatre through the now almost leafless Green Park.  Sometimes, when she was grown petulant and fractious, he had to scold her into good-humor; sometimes she had seriously to remonstrate with him; but it was all given and taken in good part.  He was never embarrassed or anxious in her society; he was happy and content and careless, as she appeared to be also.  He did not trouble to invent any excuse for calling upon her; he went down to Sloane Street just whenever he had a spare half-hour or hour; and if the morning was bright, or even passable (for it was November now, and even a tolerable sort of day was welcome), and if Miss Girond did not wish to go out or had some other engagement, Nina and he would set off for a stroll by themselves, up into Kensington Gardens, it might be, or along Piccadilly, or through the busy crowds of Oxford Street; while they looked