“Brought Nina to England?” he repeated, rather bewildered.

“But these are only my conjectures,” she said, quickly.  “No, I have no secrets to tell.  I ask myself what brings Nina to England, to the New Theatre, to the companionship with her old friend—­I ask myself that, and I see.  But you—­perhaps it is not your fault that you are blind; you have so many ladies seeking for favor you have no time to think of this one or that, or you are grown indifferent, it may be.  Poor Nina! she that was always so proud, too; it is herself that has struck herself; a deep wound to her pride; that is why she goes away, and she will never come back.  No, Mr. Moore, she will never come back.  I asked you what you would do if you were to find her—­it is useless.  She will never come back; she is too proud.”

Estelle looked at her watch.

“Soon I must go in to the theatre.  There was a note from Mr. Lehmann this morning; he wishes me to go over some parts with Miss Constance, to make sure.”

“What hour have you to be there?” he said, taking up his hat.

“Half-past eleven.”

“I will walk in with you, if you like,” he said; “there will be time.  And I want to see that Lehmann isn’t put to any inconvenience; for, you know, I introduced Nina to the New Theatre.”

On their way into town Estelle was thoughtful and silent; while Lionel kept looking far ahead, as if he expected to descry Nina coming round some street-corner or in some passing cab.  But at last his companion said to him,

“You had no quarrel, then, with Nina, on the Saturday night?”

“None.  On the contrary, the last time she spoke to me was in the most kindly way,” he said.

“Then why does she resolve to send you back those presents?” Estelle asked.  “Why is it she knows all at once that her life is broken?  You have no conjecture at all?”

“Well,” said he, with a little hesitation, “it is a difficult thing to speak of.  If Nina were looking forward as you think—­if she mistook the intention of those trinkets I gave her—­well, you know, there was a young lady and her mother, two friends of mine, who came to the theatre on Saturday night, and I dare say Nina passed while I was talking to the young lady in the wings—­and—­and Nina may have imagined something.  I can only guess—­it is possible—­”

“Now I know,” said Estelle, rather sadly.  “Poor Nina!  And still you think she would come back if you could find her?  Her pride makes her fly from you; and you think you would persuade her?  Never, never!  She will not come back—­she would drown herself first.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that!” he said, with frowning brows; and both relapsed into silence and their own thoughts.

Mr. Lehmann did not seem much put about by this defection on the part of one of his principal singers.

“It is a pity,” he said to Lionel.  “She had a fresh voice; she was improving in her stage-business; and the public liked her.  What on earth made her go off like this?”