“Don’t you think it very strange?” he asked of Estelle.  “Nina said she would write to you or send you a message—­I suppose as soon as all her plans were made.  I hope nothing has happened to her,” he added, as a kind of timid expression of his own darker self-questionings.

“Something—­something terrible?” said Estelle.  “Ah, no.  We should hear.  No; Nina will make sure we cannot reach her—­that she is not to be seen by you or me—­then perhaps I have a message.  Oh, she is very proud; she will make sure; the pain in her heart, she will hide it and hide it—­until some time goes, and she can hold up her head, with a brave face.  Poor Nina!—­she will suffer—­for she will not speak, no, not to any one.”

“But look here, Miss Girond,” he exclaimed, “if she has gone back to her friends in Italy, that’s all right; but if she is in this country, without any occupation, her money will soon be exhausted—­she can’t have had so very much.  What will become of her then?  Don’t you think I should put an advertisement in the papers—­not in my name, but in yours—­your initials—­begging her at least to let you know where she is?”

Estelle shook her head.

“No, it is useless.  Perhaps I understand Nina a little better than you, though you know her longer.  She is gentle and affectionate and very grateful to her friends; but under that there is firmness—­oh, yes.  She has firmness of mind, although she is so loving; when she has decided to go away and remain, you will not draw her back, no, not at all!  She will remain where she wishes to be; perhaps she decides never to see any of us again.  Well, well, it is pitiable, but for us to interfere, that is useless.”

“Oh, I am not so sure of that,” he said.  “As you say, I have known Nina longer than you have; if I could only learn where she is, I am quite sure that I could persuade her to come back.”

“Very well—­try!” said Estelle, throwing out both hands.  “I say no—­that she will not say where she is.  And your London papers, how will they find her?  Perhaps she is in a small English village—­perhaps in Paris—­perhaps in Naples—­perhaps in Malta.  For me, no.  She said, ’If you are my friend, you will not seek to discover where I have gone.’  I am her friend; I obey her wish.  When she thinks it is right, she will send me a message.  Until then, I wait.”

But if Nina had gone away—­depriving him of her pleasant companionship, her quick sympathy, her grave and almost matron-like remonstrances—­there was another quite ready to take her place.  Miss Burgoyne did not at all appear to regret the disappearance from the theatre of Antonia Rossi.  She was kinder to this young man than ever; she showered her experienced blandishments upon him, even when she rallied him about his gloomy looks or listless demeanor.  All the time he was not on the stage, and not engaged in dressing, he usually spent in her sitting-room; there were cigarettes and lemonade awaiting him; and when she herself could not appear, at all events she could carry on a sort of conversation with him from the inner sanctuary; and often she would come out and finish her make-up before the large mirror while she talked to him.