“The seedy swell of Naples or Rome—­he is irresistible to the Italian girl,” she said, on one occasion.  “You know him; his shirt open at the neck down almost to his chest—­his trousers tight at the knee and enormously wide at the foot—­a poncho-looking kind of cloak, with a greasy Astrachan collar—­a tall French hat, rather shabby—­a face the color of paste—­an odor of cigarettes and garlic—­dirty hands—­and a cane.  I suppose the theatre is too expensive, so he goes to the public gardens, and strolls up and down, and takes off his hat with a sweep to people he pretends to recognize; or perhaps he sits in front of a cafe, with a glass of cheap brandy before him, an evening journal in his hands, and a toothpick in his mouth.”

“You seem to have made his very particular acquaintance,” said he, with a touch of scorn.  “Did he give you his arm when you were walking together in the public gardens?”

“Give me his arm?” she exclaimed.  “I would not allow such a creature to come within twenty yards of me!  I prefer people who use soap.”

“What a pity it is they can’t invent soap for purifying the mind!” he said, venomously; and he went out, and spoke no more to her during the rest of that evening.

Matters went from bad to worse:  for Miss Burgoyne, finding nothing else that could account for his habitual depression of spirits, his occasional irritability and obvious indifference towards herself, made bold to assume that he was secretly, even if unconsciously, fretting over Nina’s absence; and her jealousy grew more and more angry and vindictive, until it carried her beyond all bounds.  For now she began to say disparaging or malicious things about Miss Ross, and that without subterfuge.  At last there came a climax.

She had sent for him (for he did not invariably go into her room before the beginning of the last act, as once he had done), and, as she was still in the inner apartment, he took a chair, and stretched out his legs, and flicked a spot or two of dust from his silver-buckled shoes.

“What hour did you get home this morning?” she called to him, in rather a saucy tone.

“I don’t know exactly.”

“And don’t care.  You are leading a pretty life,” she went on, rather indiscreetly, for Jane was with her.  “Distraction!  Distraction from what?  You sit up all night; you eat supper at all hours of the morning; you get dyspepsia and indigestion; and of course you become low-spirited—­then there must be distraction.  If you would lead a wholesome life you wouldn’t need any distraction.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” he said, impatiently.

“What’s come over that Italian friend of yours—­that Miss Ross?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never heard anything of her?”

“No—­nothing.”

“Don’t you call that rather cool on her part?  You introduce her to this theatre, you get her an engagement, you befriend her in every way, and all of a sudden she bolts, without a thank you!”