“My lodging?” she said.  “I have an apartment in the Restaurant Gianuzzi.”

“Where is that?”

“Rupert Street,” she answered, with a valiant effort at the proper pronunciation.

“My goodness! what are you doing, Nina?” he said, almost angrily.  “Living by yourself in a foreign restaurant, in the neighborhood of Leicester Square!  You’ll have to come out of that at once!”

“You must not scold me, Leo,” she said, in rather a hurt way.  “How am I to know?”

“I am not scolding you,” he said (indeed, he knew better than to do that; if once the notion had got into her little head that he was really upbraiding her, she would have been up and off in a moment, proud-lipped, indignant-eyed, with a fierce wrong rankling in her heart; and weeks it might take him to pet her into gentleness again, even if she did not forthwith set out for the South, resolved to return to this harsh, cold England no more).  “I am not scolding you, Nina,” he said, quite gently.  “Of course you didn’t know.  And of course you were attracted by the Italian name—­you thought you would feel at home—­”

“They are very nice people, yes, yes!” she said—­and still she was inclined to hold her head erect, and her mouth was a little proud and offended.

“Very likely indeed,” he said, with great consideration, “but, you see, Nina, a single young lady can’t stay at a restaurant by herself, without knowing some one, some one to go about with her—­”

“Why,” she said, vehemently, almost scornfully, “you think I not know that!  An Italian girl—­and not know that!  Last night, hour after hour, I sit and think, ’Oh, there is Leo singing now—­if I may go to the theatre!—­to sit and hear him—­and think of the old days—­and perhaps to write home to the maestro, and tell him of the grand fame of his scholar.’  But no.  I cannot go out.  There is no time yet to see about chaperon.  When it comes eleven hour, I say, ‘The theatre is ceased;’ and I go to bed.  Then this morning I know no person; I say, ’Very well, I go and see Leo; he will understand;’ it is how I meet him in the Chiaja, and he says, ’Good-morning, Nina; shall we go for a little walk out to Pozzuoli’—­it is just the same.”

“Yes, I understand well enough, Nina,” said he, good-naturedly, “and I wasn’t scolding you when I said you must get some better place to stay at while you are in London.  Well, now, I am going to tell you something.  I don’t know much about what actors and actresses are in Italy, but here in England they are exceedingly generous to any of their number who have fallen into misfortune; and a case of the kind happened a little while ago.  An actor, who used to be well known, died quite suddenly and left his widow entirely unprovided for; whereupon there was a subscription got up for her, and a morning performance, too, in which nearly all the leading actors and actresses managed to do something or other; and the result is that they have been able to take