he has made his choice, that is to say; and I picture him and his young wife living very happily in a quite small establishment—­perhaps two or three rooms only, in one of those large buildings in Victoria Street—­and everything very pretty around them, with their music and their occupations and the visits of friends.  Would not that be for him a life far more satisfactory than his present distractions—­the gayeties and amusements—­the invitations of strangers?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” her companion cried, with instant assent.  “Ah, Nina, I can see you the most charming young house-mistress—­I can see you receive your guests when they come for afternoon music—­you wear a tea-gown of brocade the color of wall-flower, with cream-colored lace—­you speak French, English, Italian as it is necessary for this one and that—­your musical reunions are known everywhere.  Will madame permit the poor Estelle to be present?—­Estelle, who will not dare to sing before those celebrated ones, but who will applaud, applaud—­in herself a prodigious claque!  And now, behold!  Miss Burgoyne arrives—­Miss Burgoyne in grand state—­and nevertheless you are her dear Nina, her charming friend, although in her heart she hates you for having carried off the handsome Lionel—­”

“Estelle,” said Nina, gently, “you let your tongue run away.  When I picture to myself Lionel in the future, I leave the space beside him empty.  Who is to fill it?—­perhaps he has never given a thought to that.  Perhaps it will always be empty; perhaps one of his fashionable friends will suddenly appear there, who knows?  He does not seem ever to look forward; if I remonstrate about his expenditure, he laughs.  And why should he give me things of value?  I am not covetous.  If he wishes to express kindness, is not a word better than any silver cup; If he wishes to be remembered when he is absent, would not the smallest message sent in a letter be of more value than a bracelet with sapphires—­”

“Oh, Nina,” her companion exclaimed, laughing, “what a thing to say!—­that you would rather have a scrap of writing from Lionel Moore than a bracelet with sapphires—­”

“No, Estelle, I did not,” Nina protested, rather indignantly; “I was talking of the value of presents generally, and of their use or uselessness.”

“And yet you seemed very proud of that loving-cup, Nina, and of the inscription on it,” Estelle said, demurely; and there the subject ended, for they were now approaching the photographer’s.

It was a Saturday night that Honnor Cunyngham and her mother—­who had come up from Brighton for a few days—­had been induced to fix for their visit to the New Theatre; and as the evening drew near, Lionel became more and more anxious, so that he almost regretted having persuaded them.  All his other troubles and worries he could at once carry to Nina, whose cheerful common-sense and abundant courage made light of them and lent him heart; but this one he had to ponder over by himself; he did not care to tell Nina with what concern he looked forward to the impressions that Miss Cunyngham might form of himself and his surroundings when brought immediately into contact with them.  And yet he was not altogether silent.