And then in that world of visions that lies just outside the realm of sleep—­in which great things become small, and small things acquire a fantastic and monstrous importance—­she worried and fretted because Lionel had laughingly complained on the previous evening that henceforth there would be no more home-made lemonade for him.  Well, now, if she—­that is to say, if Nina—­were in her humble way to try what she could do in that direction?  It might not be so good as the lemonade that Miss Burgoyne prepared; but perhaps Lionel would be a little generous and make allowance?  She would not challenge any comparison.  She and Mrs. Grey between them would do their best, and the result would be sent anonymously to his rooms in Piccadilly; if he chose to accept it—­well, it was a timid little something by way of compensation.  Nina forgot for the moment that within the next few days an unlucky sword-thrust might suddenly determine Lionel’s interest in lemonade, as in all other earthly things; these trivial matters grew large in this distorted land of waking dreams; nay, she began to think that if she were to leave England altogether, and go away back to Naples, and perhaps accept an engagement in opera at Malta, then matters would be as before at the New Theatre; and when Lionel and Miss Burgoyne met in the corridor, it would be, “Good-evening, Miss Burgoyne!” and “Good-evening, Mr. Moore!” just as it used to be.  There would be no Italian girl interfering, and bringing dissension and trouble.

But the next morning, when the actual facts of the case were before her clearer vision, she had better reason for becoming anxious and restless and miserable.  As the day wore on, Mrs. Grey could hardly persuade her to run down to the Crystal Palace for the opening of the Handel Festival, though, as the little widow pointed out, Mr. Moore had procured the tickets for them, and they were bound to go.  Of course, when once they were in the great transept of the Palace, in the presence of this vast assemblage, and listening to the splendid orchestra and a chorus of between three and four thousand voices dealing with the massive and majestic strains of the “Messiah,” the spell of the music fell upon Nina and held absolute sway over her.  She got into a curious state of exaltation; she seemed breathless; sometimes, Mrs. Grey thought, she shivered a little with the strain of emotion.  And all the time that Mr. Santley was singing “Why do the nations,” she held her hand tightly over her heart; and when he had finished—­when the thrilled multitude broke forth into an extraordinary thunder of enthusiasm—­Nina murmured to herself,

“It is—­it is like to take my life-blood away.”

But when they were in the train again, and on their way up to town, it was evident to her companion that the girl had returned to her anxious fears.

“Mrs. Grey,” she said, suddenly, “I speak to Miss Burgoyne to-night.”