That was another anxious day for those people in Piccadilly, for the fever showed no signs of abating, while some slight delirium returned from time to time.  Nina, of course, was in constant attendance; and when he began, in his wanderings, to speak of her and to ask Maurice what had become of her, she would simply go into the room, and take a seat by the bedside, and talk to him just as if they had met by accident in the Piazza Cavour.  For he had got it into his head now that they were in Naples again.

“Oh, yes, it is all right, Leo,” she would say, putting her cool hand on his burning one, “they will all be in time, the whole party; when we get down to the Risposta, they will all be there; and perhaps Sabetta will bring her zither in its case.  Then there will be the long sail across the blue water, and Capri coming nearer and nearer; then the landing and the donkeys and the steep climb up and up.  Where shall we go, Leo?—­to the Hotel Pagano or the Tiberio?  The Pagano?—­very well, for there is the long balcony shaded from the sun, and after luncheon we shall have chairs taken out—­yes, and you can smoke there—­and you will laugh to see Andrea go to the front of the railings and sing, ’Al ben de tuoi qual vittima,’ with his arms stretched out like a windmill, and Carmela very angry with him that he is so ridiculous.  But then no one hears—­what matter?—­no one except those perhaps in the small garden-house for the billiard.  Will there be moonlight to-night before we get back?  To-morrow Pandiani will grumble.  Well, let him grumble; I am not afraid of him—­no!”

So she would carelessly talk him back into quietude again; and then she would stealthily withdraw from the room, and perhaps go to the piano and begin to play some Neapolitan air—­but so softly that the notes must have come to him like music in a dream.

Lord Rockminster called that afternoon and was shown up-stairs.

“I am going down to Scotland to-night,” said he to Maurice, “and I have just got a telegram from Miss Cunyngham—­you may have heard of her from Mr. Moore?”

“Oh, yes,” Mangan said.

“She wishes me to bring her the latest news.”

Well, he was told what there was to tell—­which was not much, amid all this dire uncertainty.  He looked perplexed.

“I should like to have taken Miss Cunyngham some more reassuring message,” he said, thoughtfully.  “I suppose there is nothing either she or I could do?” And then he drew Maurice aside and spoke in an undertone.  “Except perhaps this.  I have heard that Moore has been playing a little high of late—­and has burned his fingers.  I hope you won’t let his mind be harassed by money matters.  If a temporary loan will serve, and for a considerable amount if necessary, I will rely on your writing to me; may I?”

“It is exceedingly kind of you,” Maurice said—­but made no further promise.

No, Lionel had not been forgotten by all his fashionable friends.  That same afternoon a package arrived, which, according to custom, Maurice opened, lest some acknowledgment should be necessary.  It proved to be Lady Adela Cunyngham’s new novel—­the three volumes prettily bound in white parchment.