“For the present, yes,” Miss Honnor said.  “My brother and Captain Waveney come at the beginning of April.  Of course it is rather hazardous going just now; the river might be frozen over for a fortnight at a time; but that seldom happens.  And in ordinarily mild weather it is very beautiful up there—­the most beautiful time of the year, I think; the birch-woods are all of the clearest lilac, and the brackens turned to deep crimson; then the bent grass on the higher hills—­what they call deer’s hair—­is a mass of gold.  And I don’t in the least mind being alone in the evening—­in fact, I enjoy it.  It is a splendid time for reading.  There is not a sound.  Caroline comes in from time to time to pile on more peats and sweep the hearth; then she goes out again; and you sit in an easy-chair with your back to the lamp; and if you’ve got an interesting book, what more company do you want?  Then it’s very early to bed in Strathaivron; and I’ve got a room that looks both ways—­across the strath and down; and sometimes there is moonlight making the windows blue; or if there isn’t, you can lie and look at the soft red light thrown out by the peat, until the silence is too much for you, and you are asleep before you have had time to think of it.  Now tell me about yourself,” she suddenly said.  “I hope the constant work and the long and depressing winter have not told on you.  It must have been very unpleasant getting home so late at night during the fogs.”

He would rather she had continued talking about the far Aivron and the Geinig; he did not care to come back to the theatre and Kate Burgoyne.

“One gets used to everything, I suppose,” he said.

“But still it must be gratifying to you to be in so successful a piece—­to be aware of the delight you are giving, evening after evening, to so many people,” Miss Honnor reminded him.  “By the way, how is the pretty Italian girl—­the young lady you said you had known in Naples?”

“She has left the New Theatre,” he said, not lifting his eyes.

“Oh, really.  Then I’m sure that must have been unfortunate for the operetta; for she had such a beautiful voice—­she sang so exquisitely—­and besides that there was go much refinement and grace in everything she did.  I remember mother was so particularly struck with her; we have often spoken of her since; her manner on the stage was so charming—­so gentle and graceful—­it had a curious fascination that was irresistible.  And I confess I was delighted with the little touch of foreign accent; perhaps if she had not been so very pretty, one would have been less ready to be pleased with everything.  And where is she now, Mr. Moore?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Lionel said, rather unwillingly; he would rather not have been questioned.

“And is that how friendships in the theatre are kept up?” Miss Honnor said, reproachfully.  “But it is all very well for us idle folk to talk.  I suppose you are all far too busy to give much time to correspondence.”