But Lionel shook his head.

“Duty—­duty,” he murmured.

“Duty!” said she, contemptuously.  “Duty is a thing you owe to other people, which no one ever thinks of paying to you.”  And therewith this profound moralist and epigrammatist tucked up her white satin train and waited for him to open the door, so that she might make her way to the stage, he humbly following.

On the Christmas morning the display of parcels, packets, and envelopes, large and small, spread out on the side-table in his sitting-room was simply portentous; for the fashionable world of London had had no intimation yet that their favorite singer was ill-disposed towards them, and had even at times formed sullen resolutions of withdrawing altogether from their brilliant rooms.  As he quite indifferently turned the packages and letters over, trying to guess at the name of the sender by the address, he said to himself,

“They toss you those things out of their bounty as they fling a shilling to a crossing-sweeper because it is Christmas-day.”

But here was one that he opened, recognizing the handwriting of his cousin Francie; and Francie had sent him a very pretty pair of blue velvet slippers, with his initials worked by herself in thread of gold.  That was all right, for he had got for Miss Francie a little present that he was about to take down with him—­a hand-bag in green lizard-skin that might be useful to her when she was going on her numerous errands.  It was different with the next packet he opened (also recognizing the writing), for this was a paper-weight—­an oblong slab of crystal set in silver, with a photograph of the sender showing through, and the inscription at the foot, “To Lionel Moore, from his sincere friend, K.B.”  And he had never thought of getting anything for Miss Burgoyne!  Well, it was too late now; he would have to atone for his neglect of her when he returned to town.  Meanwhile he recollected that just about now she would be getting down to Victoria station en route to Brighton; and, indeed, had it not been for the duty he owed the old people, he would have been well content to be going with her.  The last time he had been in a Pullman car on the way to Brighton it was with other friends—­or acquaintances; he knew his place now, and was resigned.  So he continued opening these parcels and envelopes carelessly and somewhat ungratefully, merely glancing at the various messages, until it was time to bethink him of setting forth.

But first of all, when the cab had been summoned and his portmanteau put on the top, he told the man to drive to a certain number in Sloane Street; he thought he would call for a minute on Mrs. Grey and Miss Girond and wish them a pleasant Christmas.  Estelle, when she made her appearance, knew better what had brought him hither.

“Ah, it is so kind of you to send me the pretty work-case—­thank you, thank you very much; and Mrs. Grey is so proud of the beautiful lamp—­she will tell you in a moment when she comes in.  And if there is something we might have liked better—­pardon, it is no disfavor to the pretty presents, not at all—­it is what you would like, too, I am sure—­it is a message from Nina.  Yes, I expected it a little—­I was awake hour after hour this morning—­when the postman came I ran down the stairs—­no! no word of any kind.”