ne of your face."

"It isn't a hind, is it?" inquired Lord Rockminster, doubtfully.

"A hind of ten points!" Lionel said, with a laugh, as he pushed his way
through. "Well, I must see if I can have a hot bath to soften my bones."

"My good fellow, it's waiting for you," his host said. "I told Jeffreys
the moment I saw you coming down the strath. We'll put back dinner a
bit; but be as quick as you can."

At the same moment there appeared a white-draped figure on the landing
above, leaning over the balustrade.

"What have you done, Mr. Moore?" called down the well-known voice of
Honnor Cunyngham.

"I've got a stag," he said, looking up with a good deal of
satisfaction--or gratitude, perhaps?--in his eyes.

"How many points?"

"Ten."

"Well done! Didn't I tell you you would get a stag?"

"It's all owing to the lucky sixpence you gave me," he said; and she
laughed, as she turned away to go to her room.

After a welcome bath he dressed as quickly as he could for
dinner--dressed so quickly, indeed, that he thought he was entitled to
glance at the outside of the pile of letters awaiting him there on the
mantelpiece. He had a large correspondence, from all kinds of people;
and when he was in a hurry this brief scrutiny of the address was all he
allowed himself; he usually could tell if there was anything of unusual
importance. On the present occasion the only handwriting that arrested
him for a second was Nina's; and some sort of half-understood
compunction made him open her letter. Well, it was not a letter; it was
merely a little printed form, such as is put about the stalls and boxes
of a theatre when an announcement has to be made. This announcement read
as follows:

"NOTICE: In consequence of the sudden indisposition of MISS
BURGOYNE, the part of 'Grace Mainwaring' will be sustained this
evening by MISS ANTONIA ROSS"

--while above these printed words Nina had written, in a rather
trembling hand: "_Ah, Leo, if you were only here to-night!_" Apparently
she had scribbled this brief message before the performance; perhaps
haste or nervousness might account for the uncertain writing. So Nina
was to have her great opportunity after all, he said to himself, as he
went joyfully down-stairs to join the brilliant assemblage in the
drawing-room. Poor Nina!--he had of late almost forgotten her existence.

CHAPTER X.

AIVRON AND GEINIG.

Honnor Cunyngham was quite as proud as Lionel himself