he did use to sing that confounded 'Antoniella, Antonia,' and it
was always you he was thinking of."

"I did not think of _him_, then!" said she, almost instantly recovering
her self-control. "Him? No! When I go out--when I was going out in the
_Santa Lucia_, I looked at the English gentlemen--all so simple and
honest in their dress--perhaps a steel watch-chain to a gold watch--not
a sham gold chain to no watch! Then they looked so clean and
wholesome--is it right, wholesome?--not their hair dripping with grease,
as the peasant-girls love it. And then," she added, with a laugh, for
her face had quickly resumed its usual happy brightness of expression,
"then I grow sentimental. I say to myself, 'These are English
people--they are going away back to England, where Leo is--can they take
him a message?--can they tell him they were going over to Capri, and
they met on the ship--on the steamer--an Italian girl, who liked to look
at the English, and liked to hear the English speak?' And then I say 'No;
what is the use; what would any message do; Leo has forgotten me.'"

"Oh, yes," said he, lightly, "you must have been quite certain that I
had forgotten my old comrade Nina!"

They got a beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon for their drive down to
Hampton Court; nor was it fated to be without incident either. They had
passed along Oxford Street and were just turning out of the crowded
thoroughfare to enter Hyde Park--and Lionel, as a man will, was watching
how his coachman would take the horses through the Marble Arch--when
Nina said, in a low voice,

"Leo!"

"Well?" said he, turning to her.

"Did you not see?"

"See what?"

"The carriage that went past." Nina said, looking a little concerned.
"Miss Burgoyne was in it--she bowed to you--"

"Did she? I didn't see her--I'll have to apologize to her to-morrow,"
said he, carelessly. "Perhaps the compliment was meant for you, Nina."

"For me? Ah, no. Miss Burgoyne speaks no more to me."

"She doesn't speak to you? Why?" he asked, in some amazement.

The young Italian lady made a little gesture of indifference.

"How do I know? But I am not sorry. I do not like her--no! she is
not--she is not--straightforward, is it right?--she is cunning--and she
has a dreadful temper--oh! I have heard;--I have heard such stories!
Again, she is not an artist--I said that to you from the beginning,
Leo--no, not an artist: why does she talk to you from behind her fan,
when she should regar