"Thank you, I don't think there is anything. Look at the flowers and grapes and things there—already—and this is Sunday."
She glanced at those gifts with open disdain.
"Very easy for rich folks to show their sympathy by sending an order to their head-gardener!"
"I will tell him that you called, and left kind messages for him."
"Yes, tell him that. And tell him Doyle does very well—fairly well—though he's as nervous as a pantomime-girl hoisted in a transformation-scene. If I were you," continued this extremely practical young lady, "I wouldn't tell any of the newspaper men that it may be a considerable time before Mr. Moore is back. Nobody likes to lose touch of the public more than he can help, you know; and if they're always expecting you back, that's something. Good-bye!"
Maurice accompanied her down-stairs and to the door; then he returned to the sitting-room and to his private meditations. For this brief interview had been of the keenest interest to him; he had studied every expression of her face, listened to every intonation of her voice; almost forced, in spite of himself, to admire her magnificent nerve. But now, of course, in recalling all these things, he was thinking of Francie; as a man invariably does when he places the one woman of the world on a pedestal, that all the rest of her sex may be compared with her; and even his extorted admiration of the prima-donna's coolness and self-possession and business-like tact did not prevent his rejoicing at the thought that Francie and Miss Burgoyne were poles asunder.
That evening Maurice was startled. He had gone very quietly into the sick-room, just to see how his patient was getting on, and found him breathing heavily and also restlessly muttering to himself. Perhaps even the slight noise of his entrance had
attracted the notice of one abnormally sensitive; at all events, Lionel opened his eyes, which were no longer drowsy, but eager and excited, and said,
"Maurice, have you not sent for Nina yet?"
"For Nina?"