“Oh, very well,” Lionel said again.

“Will you give me your hand, then?” Mr. Percival Miles asked; and he somewhat timidly advanced a step, with outstretched palm.

“That isn’t necessary,” said Lionel, making no other response.

The fair-haired young warrior seemed greatly embarrassed.

“I—­I was told—­” he stammered; but Lionel, who was now inclined to laugh, broke in on his confusion.

“Did Miss Burgoyne say you weren’t to come away without shaking hands with me—­is that it?” he asked, with a smile.

“Y—­yes,” answered the young gentleman, blushing furiously.

“Oh, very well, there’s no trouble about that,” Lionel said, and he gave him his hand for a second; after which the love-lorn youth somewhat hastily withdrew, and no doubt was glad to lose himself in the busy crowd of Piccadilly.

That same afternoon Lionel drove down to Sloane Street.  He was always glad to go along and have a friendly little chat about musical affairs with the eagerly enthusiastic Nina; and, as this particular evening was exceedingly fine and pleasant, he thought he might induce her to walk in to the theatre by way of Belgrave Square and the Green Park.  But hardly had they left the house when Nina discovered that it was not about professional matters that Lionel wanted to talk to her on this occasion.

“Nina,” said he, with befitting solemnity, “I have great news for you.  I am saved.  Yes, my life has been saved.  And by whom, think you?  Why, by Miss Burgoyne!  Miss Burgoyne is the protecting goddess who has snatched me away in a cloud just as my enemy was about to pin me to the earth with his javelin.”

“There is to be no duel, Leo?” she said, quickly.

“There is not,” he continued.  “Miss Burgoyne has forbidden it.  She has come between me and my deadly foe and held up a protecting hand.  I don’t know that it is quite a dignified position for me to find myself in, but one must recognize her friendly intentions, anyway.  And not only that, Nina, but she sent me a bottle of lemonade yesterday!  Just think of it! to save your life is something, but to send you lemonade as well—­that is almost too much goodness.”

Poor Nina!  If this careless young man had only looked at the address on the wrapper of the bottle he could easily have guessed whose was the handwriting—­especially recognizable in the foreign-looking L and M.  That timidly proffered little gift was Nina’s humble effort at compensation; and now he was bringing it forward as a proof of Miss Burgoyne’s great good-nature!  And it was Miss Burgoyne who had intervened to prevent this absurd duel—­Miss Burgoyne, who knew nothing at all about it until Nina told her!  Nina, as they now walked along towards Constitution Hill, was too proud to make any explanation; only she thought he might have looked at the address on the wrapper.