“She left no explanation with me,” Lionel said, honestly enough.  “But in her letter to Miss Girond she hopes you won’t be put to any inconvenience.  By the way, if Miss Ross owes you any forfeit, I’ll settle that up with you.”

“No, there’s no forfeit in her agreement; it wasn’t considered necessary,” the manager made answer.  “Of course I am assuming that it’s all fair and square; that she hasn’t gone off to take a better engagement—­”

“You needn’t be afraid of that,” Lionel said, briefly; and, as Miss Constance here made her appearance, he withdrew from the empty stage, and presently had left the building.

He thought he would walk up to the Restaurant Gianuzzi in Rupert Street, and make inquiries there.  But he was not very hopeful.  For one thing, if Nina were desirous of concealment or of getting free away, she would not go to a place where, as he knew, she had lodged before; for another, he had disapproved of her living there all by herself, and Nina never forgot even his least expression of opinion.  When he asked at the restaurant if a young lady had called there on the previous day to engage a room, he was answered that they had no young-lady visitor of any kind in the house; he was hardly disappointed.

But as he walked along and up Regent Street (here were the well-remembered shops that Nina and he used to glance into as they passed idly on, talking sometimes, sometimes silent, but very well content in each other’s society) he began to ask himself whether in truth he ought to seek out Nina and try to intercept her flight, even if that were yet possible.  Estelle’s questions were significant.  What would he do, supposing he could induce Nina to come back?  At present, he vaguely wished to restore the old situation—­to have Nina again among her friends, happy in her work at the theatre, ready to go out for a stroll with him if the morning were fine, he wanted his old comrade, who was always so wise and prudent and cheerful, whom he could always please by sending her down a new song, a new waltz, an Italian illustrated journal, or some similar little token of remembrance.  But if Estelle’s theory were the true one, that Nina was gone forever, never to return; her place was vacant now, never to be refilled; and somewhere or other—­perhaps hidden in London, perhaps on her way back to her native land—­there was a woman, proud, silent, and tearless, her heart quivering from the blow that he had unintentionally dealt.  How could he face that Nina?  What humble explanations and apologies could he offer?  To ask her to come back would of itself be an insult.  Her wrongs were her defence? she was sacred from intrusion, from expostulation and entreaty.

At the theatre that evening he let the public fare as it liked, so far as his part in the performance was concerned.  He got through his duties mechanically.  The stage lacked interest; the wings were empty; the long, glazed corridor conveyed a mute reproach.  As for the new Clara, Miss Constance did fairly well; she had not much of a voice, but she was as bold as brass, and her “cheek” seemed to be approved by the audience.  At one point Estelle came up to him.