“Oh, Miss Burgoyne, something very awkward happened yesterday—­I am so sorry—­I want to apologize—­”

“I hope you will do nothing of the kind,” said she, haughtily, “it is quite unnecessary.”

“Oh, but look here, I’m really very sorry,” he was endeavoring to say, when she again interrupted him: 

“If you choose to go driving through London with chorus-girls,” said she, in measured and bitter tones, “I suppose your attention must be fully occupied.”

And therewith she marched proudly away from him; nor could he follow her to protest or explain, for he was wanted on the stage in about a second.  He felt inclined to be angry and resentful; but he was helpless; he had to attend to this immediate scene.

Meanwhile Miss Burgoyne did not long preserve that lofty demeanor of hers; the moment she left him her rage got the better of her, for here was the Italian girl most inopportunely coming along the corridor; and just as poor Nina came up Miss Burgoyne turned to her maid, who was holding open the dressing-room door for her, and said aloud, so that every one could overhear,

“Oh, we don’t want foreigners in English opera; why don’t they take a barrel-organ through the streets, or a couple of canaries in a cage?”

Nor was that all; for here was Mlle. Girond; and the smart little boy-officer, as she came along the passage, was gayly singing to herself,

   “Le roti, la salade,
    L’amour, la promenade
      A deux dans les
        Dans les
      Deux dans les
    A deux dans les bluets!”

“Oh, there’s another of the foreign chimpanzees!” exclaimed Miss Burgoyne, in her fury; and she dashed into her room, and slammed the door behind her.

Mlle. Girond stood staring at the door; then she turned to look at Nina; then she burst out laughing.

“Quel ouragan, grand Dieu!” she cried.  “Ma pauvre enfant, qu’allez vous faire maintenant?” She turned to the door and laughed again.  “Elle a la tete pres du bonnet, n’est-ce pas?—­mon Dieu, elle s’enflamme comme de la poudre!”

But Nina did not stay to make any explanation; somewhat paler than usual, and quite silent and reserved, she took up her position in the wings; nor had she a word to say to Lionel when he came off the stage and passed her—­with a nod and a smile of greeting—­on his way to his room.

Then things went from bad to worse, and swiftly.  On the very next afternoon, which was a Sunday, Lionel was about to walk down to Sloane Street, to have a chat and a cup of tea with Mrs. Grey and Nina; but before going he thought he would just have time to scribble a piece of music in an album that Lady Rosamund Bourne had sent him and affix his name thereto.  He brought his writing materials to the table and opened the big volume; and he was glancing over the pages (Lady Rosamund had laid some very distinguished people, mostly artists, under contribution, and there were