“Nina,” said he, as they were driving in a hansom to Sloane Street (all her belongings being on the top of the cab), “Lehmann, our manager, is to be at the theatre this afternoon, about some scenery, I fancy, and there’s a chance of our catching him if we went down some little time before the performance.  Would you come along and sing one or two things? you might have the arrangement made at once.”

“Will you go with me, Leo?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I mean Mrs. Grey will take you, you know; for I will try to get places for her and you in front afterwards; but I will go with you as well.  You won’t be afraid?”

She laughed.

“Afraid?—­no, no—­what I can do I can do—­there is no Pandiani to scold me if they not satisfied—­that is my own beezness—­is it right?—­oh, I say to you, Leo, if you hear Pandiani when I refuse to go to Malta—­you think you know the Neapolitan deealet—­dialect?—­no, it is not good for you to know all the wicked words of Naples—­and he is old and evil-tempered—­it is no matter.  But in this theatre there is no Pandiani and his curses—­”

“No, no, not curses, Nina,” he said.  “I see old Debernardi has taught you some strange English.  Of course the maestro did not use curses to his favorite pupil—­oh, yes, you were, Nina, a great favorite, though he was always grumbling and growling.  However, remember this, Nina, you must sing your best this evening, and impress them; and I shouldn’t wonder if Lehmann gave you exceptional terms.”

“More beezness?” she said, with a smile that showed a gleam of her pretty teeth; the sound of the word had tickled her ear, somehow; more than once, as the cab rolled away down Kensingtonwards, he could hear her repeat to herself—­“beezness! beezness!”

This young Italian lady seemed to produce a most favorable impression on the little, pale-faced widow, who appeared to be very grateful to Lionel Moore for having thought of her.  The ground-floor sitting-room and bedroom, she explained, were occupied by her sole lodger; the young lady could have the choice of any of the apartments above.  The young lady, as it turned out, was startled beyond measure at the price she was asked to pay (which, in truth, was quite moderate, for the rooms were good rooms, in a good situation, and neatly furnished), and it was only on Lionel’s insisting on it that she consented to take the apartments on the second floor.

“I beg you not miscomprehend,” Nina said, somewhat earnestly, to the little landlady (for was she not a friend of Leo’s?).  “The price is, perhaps, not too large—­it is to me that it is large—­”

“Oh, that’s all right, Nina,” Lionel broke in; “that’s all settled.  You see, Mrs. Grey, Miss Rossi has come over here to get an engagement in comedy opera, or perhaps to sing at concerts; and if a manager calls to see her on business, why, of course, she must be in decent rooms.  You can’t go and live in a slum.  Mrs. Grey knows what managers are, Nina; you must take up a good position and hold your own; and—­and, in fact, Nina, when you are in London you can’t afford to go and climb those frightful Neapolitan stairs and hide yourself in a garret.  So it’s settled; and I’m going out directly to hire a piano for you.”