But this friendliness on the part of the prima-donna towards the young baritone’s protegee did not last very long.  For one thing, Lionel did not come to Miss Burgoyne’s sitting-room as much as he used to do, to have a cup of tea and a chat with one or two acquaintances; he preferred standing in the wings with Nina, who was a most indefatigable student, and giving her whispered criticisms and comments as to what was going forward on the stage.  When Miss Burgoyne came upon them so employed, she passed them in cold disdain.  And by degrees she took less and less notice of Miss Ross (as Nina was now called), who, indeed, was only Miss Girond’s under-study and a person of no consequence in the theatre.  Finally, Miss Burgoyne ceased to recognize Miss Ross, even when they happened to be going in by the stage-door of an evening; and Nina, not knowing how she had offended, nevertheless accepted her fate meekly and without protest, nor had she any thought of asking Lionel to intervene.

But worse was to befall.  One day Lionel said to her,

“Nina, I never knew any one work harder than you are doing.  Of course it’s very handy your having Mrs. Grey to coach you; and you can’t do better than stand opposite that long mirror and watch yourself doing what she tells you to do.  She’s quite enthusiastic about you; perhaps it’s because you are so considerate—­she says you never practise until the other lodgers have gone out.  By the way, that reading dialogue aloud is capital; I can hear how your English is getting freer and freer; why, in a little while you’ll be able to take any part that is offered you.  And in any case, you know, the English audiences rather like a touch of foreign accent; oh, you needn’t be afraid about that.  Well, now, all this hard work can’t go on forever; you must have a little relaxation; and I’m going to take you and Mrs. Grey for a drive down to Hampton Court, and we’ll dine there in the evening, in a room overlooking the river—­very pretty it is, I can tell you.  What do you say?  Will next Friday do?  Friday is the night of least consequence in a London theatre; and if you can arrange it with Mrs. Grey, I’ll arrange it with Lehmann; my under-study is always glad of a chance of taking the part.  You persuade Mrs. Grey, and I’ll manage Lehmann.  Is it a bargain?”

So it came about that on a certain bright and sunny morning in June Lionel was standing at the window of a private room in a hotel near the top of Regent Street, where he proposed (for he was an extravagant young man) to entertain his two guests at lunch before driving them down to Hampton Court.  He had ordered the wine and seen that the flowers on the table were all right; and now he was looking down into the street, vaguely noticing the passers-by.  But this barouche that drove up?—­there was something familiar about it—­wasn’t it the carriage he had sent down to Sloane Street?—­then the next moment he was saying to himself,