“He is not to be disturbed in any way.  Perfect rest is what the doctors ordain.  He has been left a wreck, but his fine constitution will pull him through; in the meantime we have to be most careful.”

She was silent and thoughtful for a minute.

“I can’t see him?”

“I think not—­it would be most unwise.  You would not wish to do anything inconsiderate.”

“Oh, certainly not.  May I write to him, then?” she asked.

“It will be some time before he can attend to any letters.  You have no idea how weak he is.  We want him to remain in perfect rest and quiet.”

“This is Thursday,” she said.  “Supposing everything goes well, and I called on Tuesday next, could I see him then?”

“By that time it would be easier to say,” he answered, with diplomatic ingenuity.  “I should think it very likely.”

“It will be a long time before he can come back to the theatre?” she asked again.

“There is no doubt about that.”

“But his voice will be all right when he gets well?”

“Dr. Whitsen seems to think so.”

She stood undecided for a moment; then she said,

“Well, I won’t write until you give me leave.  I don’t mind your seeing the letter, when I do.  In the meantime, will you tell Lionel how awfully glad I am that he is going on well, and that we shall all be glad to have him back at the theatre?”

“I will give him the message.”

“Thanks—­good-bye.”  And therewith Miss Burgoyne and her brother Jim withdrew.

But if Maurice set his face against that young lady being allowed to see Lionel in his present exhausted condition, it was quite otherwise with his notions about Nina.  He talked to the three doctors, and to Mrs. Moore, and to Francie—­to Francie most of all; and he maintained that, so far from such a meeting causing any mental disturbance, the knowledge that Nina was in London, was close by, would only be a source of joy and placid congratulation and peace.  They yielded at last, and the experiment was to be tried on the Saturday morning about eleven.  Nina was told.  She trembled a little, but was ready to do whatever was required of her.

“Well, now,” said Maurice to her, when she came up that morning (he noticed that she was dressed with extreme neatness and grace, and also that she seemed pale and careworn, though her beautiful dark eyes had lost none of their soft lustre), “we mustn’t startle him.  We must lead up to his seeing you.  I wonder whether your playing those Neapolitan airs may not have left some impression on his brain?—­they might sound familiar?”

At once Nina went to the piano and silently opened it.

“I will go and talk to him,” he whispered.  “Just you play a little, and we’ll see.”

Mangan went into the next room and began to say a few casual words, in a careless kind of way, but all the time keeping watchful and furtive observation of his friend’s face.  And even as he spoke there came another sound—­soft and low and distant—­that seemed to say, “A la fenesta affaciate—­nennela de stu core—­io t’aggio addo che spasemi, ma spasemo d’amore—­e cchiu non trovo requia, nennella mia, ppe te!—­”