“Oh, no, don’t do that, Miss Nina!” said Mrs. Grey, with much concern, for she knew something of the circumstances of the case.  “I hope you won’t do that!  You might simply make matters worse.  Mr. Moore would not have spoken to you if he thought you would interfere, depend upon that.  And if Miss Burgoyne is vexed or angry, what good would you do?  I hear she has a sharp tongue; don’t you try her temper, my dear,” the little woman pleaded.

But Nina did not answer these representations; and she was mostly silent and thoughtful all the way to town.  When they reached London, they had some tea at the railway-station, and she went on at once to the theatre.  She was there early; Miss Burgoyne had not arrived; so Nina lingered about the corridor, listening to Mlle. Girond’s pretty chatter, but not hearing very much.

At length the prima-donna appeared; and she would have passed Nina without recognition, had not the latter went forward a step, and said, somewhat timidly,

“Miss Burgoyne!”

“What?” said Miss Burgoyne, stopping short, and regarding the Italian girl with a by-no-means-friendly stare.

“May I have a word with you?” Nina said, with a little hesitation.

“Yes; what is it?” the other demanded, abruptly.

“But—­but in private?” Nina said again.  “In your room?”

“Oh, very well, come in!” Miss Burgoyne said, with but scant courtesy; and she led the way into her sitting-room, and also intimated to her maid that she might retire into the inner apartment.  Then she turned to Nina.

“What is it you want?”

But the crisis found Nina quite unprepared.  She had constructed no set speech; she had formulated no demand.  For a second or so she stood tongue-tied—­tongue-tied and helpless—­unable to put her passionate appeal into words; then, all of a sudden, she said,

“Miss Burgoyne, you will not allow it—­this folly!  It is madness that they fight about—­about nothing!  You will not allow it!—­what is it to you?—­you have enough fame, enough reputation as a prima-donna, as a favorite with the public—­what more?  Why should you wish more—­and at such a dreadful risk?—­”

“Oh, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Miss Burgoyne.  “What are you talking about?”

“The duel—­” said Nina, breathlessly.

“What duel?”

Nina stared at her.

“Ah, you do not know, then?” she exclaimed.

“What don’t I know?” Miss Burgoyne said, impatiently.  “What are you talking about!  What duel?  Is it something in the evening papers?  Or have you taken leave of your senses?”

Nina paid no heed to these taunts.

“You do not know, then,” she asked, “that—­that Mr. Moore is going to fight a duel—­with a young gentleman who is your friend?  No?—­you do not know it?”

It was Miss Burgoyne’s turn to stare in amazement.

“Mr. Moore?” she repeated, with her eyes (which were pretty and coquettish enough, though they were not on the same plane) grown wide and wondering.  “A friend of mine?  And you come to me—­as if I had anything to do with it?  Oh, my goodness!” she suddenly exclaimed, and a curious smile of intelligence began to dawn upon her face.  “Has that young donkey carried the matter so far as that?”