He stood silent for a minute.

“I confess I had some kind of fancy she might wish to send you just a line or a card—­any sort of reminder of her existence—­on Christmas-day; for she knows the English custom,” he said, rather absently.  “And there is nothing—­nothing of any kind, you say.  Well, I have written to Pandiani.”

“Ah, the maestro?—­yes?”

“You see, I knew it was no use writing to her friends,” he continued, “for, if she were with them, she would tell them not to answer.  But it is different with Pandiani.  If she has got any musical engagement in Naples, or if she has gone to Malta, he would know.  It seems hard that at Christmas-time we should be unable to send a message to Nina.”

“Perhaps she is sure that we think of her,” Estelle said, rather sadly.  “I did not know till she was gone that I loved her so much and would miss her so much; because sometimes—­sometimes she reproved me—­and we had little disagreements—­but all the same she was so kind—­and always it was for your opinion I was corrected—­it was what you would think if I did this or that.  Ah, well, Nina will take her own time before she allows us to know.  Perhaps she is not very happy.”

Nor had Mrs. Grey any more helpful counsel or conjecture to offer; so, rather downheartedly, he got into the hansom again and set out for Victoria station, where he was to meet Maurice Mangan.

Maurice he found in charge of a bewildering number of variously sized packages, which seemed to cause him some anxiety, for there was no sort of proper cohesion among them.

“Toys for Francie’s children, I’ll bet,” said Lionel.

“Well, how otherwise could I show my gratitude?” Mangan said.  “You know it’s awfully good of your people, Linn, to ask a poor, solitary devil like me to join their Christmas family party.  It’s almost too much—­”

“I should think they were precious glad to get you!” Lionel made answer, as he and his friend took their seats in one of the carriages.

“And I’ve got a little present for Miss Francie herself,” continued Mangan, opening his bag, and taking therefrom a small packet.  He carefully undid the tissue-paper wrappers, until he could show his companion what they contained; it was a copy of “Aurora Leigh,” bound in white vellum, and on the cover were stamped two tiny violets,-green-stemmed and purple-blossomed.

“‘Aurora Leigh,’” said Lionel—­not daring, however, to take the dainty volume in his hands.  “That will just suit Miss Savonarola.  And what are the two violets, Maurice—­what do they mean?”

“Oh, that was merely a little device of my own,” Mangan said, evasively.

“You don’t mean to say that these are your handiwork?” Lionel asked, looking a little closer.

“Ob, no.  I merely drew them, and the binder had them stamped in color for me.”

“And what did that cost?”

“I don’t know yet.”