learned with regard to the Signorina Rossi, to communicate farther. There was no hope in that quarter.
But one morning Estelle made a new suggestion.
"There is something I have recalled; yes, it is perhaps of not great importance; yet perhaps again," she said. "One day Nina and I, we were speaking of this thing and the other, and she said it was right and proper that a young lady should have a dot—what is the English?—no matter. She said the young lady should bring something towards the—the management; and she asked how she or I could do that. Then comes her plan. She was thinking of it before she arrives in England. It was to go to America—to be engaged for concerts—oh, they pay large, large salaries, if you have a good voice—and Nina would take engagements for all the big cities, until she got over to San Francisco, and from there to Australia—a great tour—a long time—but at the end, then she has the little fortune, and she is independent, whatever happens. Marriage?—well, perhaps not, but she is independent. Yes, it was Nina's plan to go away on that long tour; but she comes to England—she is engaged at the New Theatre—she practises her little economies—but not so as it would be in America, and now, now if she wishes to go away for a long, long time, is it not America? She goes on the long voyage; she forgets—what she wishes to forget. Her singing, it is constant occupation; she must work; and they welcome a good voice there—she will have friends. Do you consider it not possible? Yes, it is possible—for that is to go entirely away, and there is no danger of any one interfering."
"It's just frightful to think of," he said, "if what you imagine is correct. Fancy her crossing the Atlantic all by herself—landing in New York unknown to any human being there—"
"Ah, but do you fear for Nina?" Estelle cried. "No, no—she has courage—she has self-reliance, even in despair—she will have made preparations for all. Everywhere she has her passport—in her voice. 'I am Miss Ross, from the New Theatre, London,' she says. 'How do we know that you are Miss Ross?' 'Give me a sheet of music, then.' Perhaps it is in a theatre or a concert-room. Nina sings. 'Thank you, mademoiselle, it is enough; what are the terms you wish for an engagement?' Then it is finished, and Nina has all her plans made for her by
the management; and she goes from one town to the other, far away perhaps; perhaps she has not much time to think of England. So much the better; poor Nina!"
And for a while he took an eager interest in the American newspapers. Such of them as he could get hold of he read diligently—particularly the columns in which concerts and musical entertainments were announced or reported. But there was no mention of Miss Ross, or of any new singer whom he could identify with her. Gradually he lost all hope in that direction also. He did not forget Nina. He could not; but he grew to think that—whether she were in America, or in Australia, or in whatever far land she might be—she had gone away forever. Her abrupt disappearance was no momentary withdrawal; she had sundered their familiar association, their close comradeship, that was never to be resumed; according to the old and sad refrain, it was "Adieu for evermore, my dear, and adieu for evermore!" Well, for him there were still crowded houses, with their dull thunders of applause; and there were cards and betting to send the one feverish hour flying after the other; and there were the lonely walks through the London streets in the daytime—when the hours did not fly so quickly. He had carefully put away those trinkets that Nina had returned to him; he would fain have forgotten their existence.
And then there was Miss Burgoyne. Miss Burgoyne could be very brisk and cheerful when she chose; and she now seemed bent on showing Mr. Lionel Moore the sunnier side of her character. In truth, she was most assiduously kind to the young man, even when she scolded him about the life he was leading. Her room and its mild refreshments were always at his disposal. She begged for his photograph, and, having got it, she told him to write something very nice and pretty at the foot of it; why should formalities be used between people so intimately and constantly associated? On more than one occasion she substituted a real rose (which was not nearly so effective, however) for the millinery blossom which Grace Mainwaring had to drop from the balcony to her lover below; and of course Lionel had to treasure the flower and keep it in water, until the hot and gassy atmosphere of his dressing-room killed it. Once or twice she called him Lionel, by way of pretty inadvertence.
There came an afternoon when the fog that had lain all day
over London deepened and deepened until in the evening the streets were become almost impassable. The various members of the company, setting out in good time, managed to reach the theatre—though there were breathless accounts of adventures and escapes as this one or that hurried through the wings and down into the dressing-room corridor; but the public, not being paid to come forth on such a night, for the most part preferred the snugness and safety of their own homes, so that the house was but half filled, and the faces of the scant audience were more dusky than ever—were almost invisible—beyond the blaze of the footlights. And as the performance proceeded, Miss Burgoyne professed to become more and more alarmed. Dreadful reports came in from without. All traffic was suspended. It was scarcely possible to cross a street. Even the policemen, familiar with the thoroughfares, hardly dared leave the pavement to escort a bewildered traveller to the other side.