“And you have never sung in public, Nina?” he asked.

“At one concert, yes, in Naples,” the young lady made answer.  “And at two or three matinees” And then she turned to him, with a bright look.  “You know this, Leo?—­I am offered—­no—­I was offered—­an engagement to sing in opera; oh, yes; it was the impresario from Malta—­he comes to Naples—­Pandiani makes us all sing to him—­then will I go to Malta, to the opera there?  No!”

“Why not, Nina?  Surely that was a good opening,” he said.

She turned away from him again, and her fingers wandered lightly over the keys of the piano.

“I always say to me, ’Some day I am in England; the English give much money at concerts; perhaps that is better.’”

“So you’ve come over to England to get a series of concert-room engagements; is that it, Nina?”

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.

“Perhaps.  One must wait and see.  It is not my ambition.  No.  The light opera, that is—­popular?—­is it right?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It is very popular in England,” said the young Italian lady, with her eyes coming back from the music-sheets to seek those of her friend.”  Well, Leo, if I take a small part to begin, have I voice sufficient?  What do you think?  No; be frank; say to yourself, ’I am Pandiani; here is Antonia Rossi troubling me once more; it is useless; go away, Antonia Rossi, and not trouble me!’ Well, Maestro Pandiani, what you say?”

“So you want to go on the stage, Nina?” said he; and again the dread of finding himself responsible for this solitary young stranger sent a qualm to his heart.  It was an embarrassing position altogether; but at the same time the thought of shaking her off—­of getting free from this responsibility by telling a white lie or two and persuading her to go back to Naples—­that thought never even occurred to him.  To shake off his old comrade Nina?  He certainly would have preferred, for many reasons, that she should have taken to concert-room business; but if she were relying on him for an introduction to the lyric stage, why, he was bound to help her in every possible way.  “You know you’ve got an excellent voice,” he continued.  “And a very little stage training would fit you for a small part in comedy-opera, if that is what you’re thinking of, as a beginning.  But I don’t know that you would like it, Nina.  You see, you would have to become under-study for the lady who has the part at present; and they’d probably want you to sing in the chorus; and you’d get a very small salary—­at first, you know, until you were qualified to take one of the more important parts—­and then you might get into a travelling company—­”

“A small part?” said she, with much cheerfulness.  “Oh, yes; why not?  I must learn.”

“But I don’t know that you would like it,” he said, still ruefully.  “You see, Nina, you might have to dress in the same room with two or three of the chorus-girls—­”