vortex of a city into which he was now plunged—a turbulent, bewildering, vast black hole it seemed, and yet all afire with its blaze of windows and lamps. In Strathaivron the night was a gentle thing—it came stealing over the landscape as soft as sleep; it brought silence with it and a weight to tired eyes; it bade the woods be still; and to the lonely and darkened peaks of the hills it unveiled its canopy of trembling stars. But here there was no night—there was yellow fire, there were black phantoms unceasingly hurrying hither and thither, and a dull and constant roar more continuous than that of any sea. Tottenham Court Road after Strathaivron! But here at least was actuality; the time for sentimental sorrows, for dumb and hopeless regrets, was over and gone.
And who was the first to greet him on his return to London—who but Nina?—not in person, truly, but by a very graceful little message. The moment he went into his sitting-room his eye fell on the tiny nosegay lying on the table; and when he took the card from the accompanying envelope, he knew whose handwriting he would find there. "Welcome home—from Nina!"—that was all; but it was enough to make him rather remorseful. Too much had he neglected his old comrade and ally; he had scarcely ever written to her; she had been but little in his thoughts. Poor Nina!—It was a shame he should treat so faithful a friend so ill; he might have remembered her a little more had not his head been stuffed with foolish fancies. Well, as soon as he had changed his clothes and swallowed a bit of food he would jump into a hansom and go along to the New Theatre; he would be too late to judge of Nina's Grace Mainwaring as a whole, but he would have a little chat with her in the wings.
He was later in getting there than he had expected; indeed, as he made his way to the side of the stage, he discovered that his locum tenens had just been recalled and was singing for the second time the well-known serenade, "The Starry Night"—and very well he sang it, too, confound him! Lionel said to himself. And here was Nina, standing on a small platform at the top of a short ladder, and waiting until the passionate appeal of her sweetheart (in the garden without) should be finished. She did not know of the presence of the new-comer. Lionel might have pulled her skirts, it is true, to apprise her of his being there; but that would not have been decorous; besides, he
dared not distract her attention from the business of the stage. As soon as the last verse of the serenade had been sung, with its recurring refrain—
"Appear, my sweet, and shame the skies,
That have no splendor
That have no splendor like thine eyes"—
Nina—that is, Grace Mainwaring—carefully opened the casement at which she was supposed to be standing. A flood of moonlight—lime-light, rather—fell on her; but Lionel could not see how she looked the part, because her back was towards him. Very timidly Grace Mainwaring glanced this way and that, to make sure that no one could observe her; she took a rose from her hair, kissed it, and dropped it to her enraptured lover below. It was the end of the act. She had to come down quickly from the platform for the recall that resounded through the theatre; she did not chance to notice Lionel; she was led on and across the stage by Harry Thornhill, she bowing repeatedly and gracefully, he reserving his acknowledgment until he had handed her off. The reception both of them got was most gratifying; there could be no doubt of the sincerity of the applause of this crowded house.
"It seems to me I am not wanted here any more," Lionel said to himself. "Even Nina won't take any notice of the stranger."
The next moment Nina, who was coming across the stage, caught sight of him, and with a little cry of delight she ran towards him—yes, ran; for what cared she about carpenters and scene-shifters?—and caught both his hands in hers.