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 ha