forever.  Her abrupt disappearance was no momentary withdrawal; she had sundered their familiar association, their close comradeship, that was never to be resumed; according to the old and sad refrain, it was “Adieu for evermore, my dear, and adieu for evermore!” Well, for him there were still crowded houses, with their dull thunders of applause; and there were cards and betting to send the one feverish hour flying after the other; and there were the lonely walks through the London streets in the daytime—­when the hours did not fly so quickly.  He had carefully put away those trinkets that Nina had returned to him; he would fain have forgotten their existence.

And then there was Miss Burgoyne.  Miss Burgoyne could be very brisk and cheerful when she chose; and she now seemed bent on showing Mr. Lionel Moore the sunnier side of her character.  In truth, she was most assiduously kind to the young man, even when she scolded him about the life he was leading.  Her room and its mild refreshments were always at his disposal.  She begged for his photograph, and, having got it, she told him to write something very nice and pretty at the foot of it; why should formalities be used between people so intimately and constantly associated?  On more than one occasion she substituted a real rose (which was not nearly so effective, however) for the millinery blossom which Grace Mainwaring had to drop from the balcony to her lover below; and of course Lionel had to treasure the flower and keep it in water, until the hot and gassy atmosphere of his dressing-room killed it.  Once or twice she called him Lionel, by way of pretty inadvertence.

There came an afternoon when the fog that had lain all day over London deepened and deepened until in the evening the streets were become almost impassable.  The various members of the company, setting out in good time, managed to reach the theatre—­though there were breathless accounts of adventures and escapes as this one or that hurried through the wings and down into the dressing-room corridor; but the public, not being paid to come forth on such a night, for the most part preferred the snugness and safety of their own homes, so that the house was but half filled, and the faces of the scant audience were more dusky than ever—­were almost invisible—­beyond the blaze of the footlights.  And as the performance proceeded, Miss Burgoyne professed to become more and more alarmed.  Dreadful reports came in from without.  All traffic was suspended.  It was scarcely possible to cross a street.  Even the policemen, familiar with the thoroughfares, hardly dared leave the pavement to escort a bewildered traveller to the other side.

When Lionel, having dressed for the last act, went into Miss Burgoyne’s room, he found her (apparently) very much perturbed.

“Have you heard?  It’s worse than ever!” she called to him from the inner apartment.

“So they say.”

“Whatever am I to do?” she exclaimed, her anxiety proving too much for her grammar.