people; they flattered themselves that they rather belonged to the set—­actors, authors, artists, musicians, those busy and eager amateurs considered to be, like themselves, of imagination all compact.  But that he should have asked Honnor Cunyngham to come and look on at the antics of this gaping and grinning fool; that she should know he had to consort with such folk; that she should consider him an aider and abettor in putting this kind of entertainment before the public—­this galled him to the quick.  The murmur of the Aivron and the Geinig seemed dinning in his ears.  If only he could have thrown aside these senseless trappings—­if he were an under-keeper now, or a water-bailiff, or even a gillie looking after the dogs and the ponies, he could have met the gaze of those clear hazel eyes without shame.  But here he was the coadjutor of this grimacing clown; and she was sitting in her box there—­and thinking.

“What is it, Leo?” said Nina, coming up to him rather timidly.  “You are annoyed.”

“I have made a mistake, that is all,” he said, rather impatiently.  “I shouldn’t have persuaded those two ladies to come to the theatre; I forgot what kind of thing we played in; I might as well have asked them to go to a penny gaff.  Collier is worse than ever to-night.”

“And you better, Leo,” said Nina, who had always comforting words for him.  “Did you not hear how enthusiastic the audience were?  And if this is the young lady you told me of—­who was so friendly in Scotland that she did not fear ridicule for herself in order to save you from the possibility of ridicule—­surely she will be so well-wishing to you that she will understand you have nothing to do with the foolishness on the stage.”

“If you are thinking of that salmon-fishing incident,” he said, rather hastily, “of course you mustn’t imagine there was any fear of her encountering any ridicule.  Oh, certainly not.  It was no new thing for her to get wet when she was out fishing—­”

“At all events, it was a friendly act to you,” said Nina, on whom that occurrence seemed to have made some impression.  “And if she is so generous, so benevolent towards you, do you think she will not see you are not responsible for the comic business?”

It was at the end of the penultimate act that an attendant brought round Miss Cunyngham and her mother—­the latter a handsome and distinguished-looking elderly lady, with white hair done up a la Marie Antoinette—­behind the scenes; and Nina, hanging some way back, could see them being presented to Miss Burgoyne.  Nina was a little breathless and bewildered.  She had heard a good deal about the fisher-maiden in the far North, of her hardy out-of-door life, and her rough and serviceable costume; and perhaps she had formed some mental picture of her—­very different from the actual appearance of this tall young Englishwoman, whose clear, calm eyes, strongly marked eyebrows, and proud, refined features were so striking.  Here