e took up her position in the
wings; nor had she a word to say to Lionel when he came off the stage
and passed her--with a nod and a smile of greeting--on his way to his
room.

Then things went from bad to worse, and swiftly. On the very next
afternoon, which was a Sunday, Lionel was about to walk down to Sloane
Street, to have a chat and a cup of tea with Mrs. Grey and Nina; but
before going he thought he would just have time to scribble a piece of
music in an album that Lady Rosamund Bourne had sent him and affix his
name thereto. He brought his writing materials to the table and opened
the big volume; and he was glancing over the pages (Lady Rosamund had
laid some very distinguished people, mostly artists, under contribution,
and there were some interesting sketches) when the house-porter came up
and presented a card. Lionel glanced at the name--Mr. Percival
Miles--and wondered who the stranger might be; then he recollected that
surely this was the name of a young gentleman who was a devoted admirer
of Miss Burgoyne. Miss Burgoyne had, indeed, on one occasion introduced
the young man to him; but he had paid little heed; most likely he
regarded him with the sort of half-humorous contempt with which the
professional actor is apt to look upon the moon-struck youths who bring
bouquets into the stalls and languish about stage-doors. However, he
told the house-porter to ask the gentleman to step up-stairs.

But he was hardly prepared for what followed. The young gentleman who
now came into the room--he was a pretty boy, of the fair-haired English
type, with a little yellow moustache and clear, gray eyes--seemed almost
incapable of speech, and his lips were quite pale.

"In--in what I have to say to you, Mr. Moore," he said, in a breathless
kind of way, "I hope there will be no need to mention any lady's name.
But you know whom I mean. That--that lady has placed her interests in my
hands--she has appealed to me--I am here to demand reparation--in the
usual way--"

"Reparation--for what?" Lionel asked, staring at the young man as if he
were an escaped lunatic.

"Your attentions," said the hapless boy, striving hard to preserve a
calm demeanor, "your attentions are odious and objectionable--she will
not submit to them any longer--"

"My attentions?" Lionel said. "If you mean Miss Burgoyne, I never paid
her any--you must be out of your senses!"

"Shuffling will do you no good," said this fierce warrior, who seemed to