anding in the wings with Nina, who was a most indefatigable student,
and giving her whispered criticisms and comments as to what was going
forward on the stage. When Miss Burgoyne came upon them so employed,
she passed them in cold disdain. And by degrees she took less and less
notice of Miss Ross (as Nina was now called), who, indeed, was only Miss
Girond's under-study and a person of no consequence in the theatre.
Finally, Miss Burgoyne ceased to recognize Miss Ross, even when they
happened to be going in by the stage-door of an evening; and Nina, not
knowing how she had offended, nevertheless accepted her fate meekly and
without protest, nor had she any thought of asking Lionel to intervene.

But worse was to befall. One day Lionel said to her,

"Nina, I never knew any one work harder than you are doing. Of course
it's very handy your having Mrs. Grey to coach you; and you can't do
better than stand opposite that long mirror and watch yourself doing
what she tells you to do. She's quite enthusiastic about you; perhaps
it's because you are so considerate--she says you never practise until
the other lodgers have gone out. By the way, that reading dialogue aloud
is capital; I can hear how your English is getting freer and freer; why,
in a little while you'll be able to take any part that is offered you.
And in any case, you know, the English audiences rather like a touch of
foreign accent; oh, you needn't be afraid about that. Well, now, all
this hard work can't go on forever; you must have a little relaxation;
and I'm going to take you and Mrs. Grey for a drive down to Hampton
Court, and we'll dine there in the evening, in a room overlooking the
river--very pretty it is, I can tell you. What do you say? Will next
Friday do? Friday is the night of least consequence in a London theatre;
and if you can arrange it with Mrs. Grey, I'll arrange it with Lehmann;
my under-study is always glad of a chance of taking the part. You
persuade Mrs. Grey, and I'll manage Lehmann. Is it a bargain?"

So it came about that on a certain bright and sunny morning in June
Lionel was standing at the window of a private room in a hotel near the
top of Regent Street, where he proposed (for he was an extravagant young
man) to entertain his two guests at lunch before driving them down to
Hampton Court. He had ordered the wine and seen that the flowers on the
table were all right; and now he was looking down into the street,
vaguely noticing the