endence was like to drive a man
to say, "I am as peremptory as she proud-minded." Nevertheless, she was
no curst Katherine; her temper was of the serenest; she was almost too
bland and placid, Lionel thought--it showed she cared too little about
you to be either exacting and petulant, or, on the other hand,
solicitous to please.

There came into these silent and reverie-haunted solitudes a letter from
the distant and turbulent world without; and of a sudden Lionel felt
himself transported back into the theatre again, in the midst of all its
struggles and hopes and anxieties, its jealousies and triumphs, its
ceaseless clamor and unrest. The letter was from Nina.

"MY DEAR FRIEND LEO,--I have waited now some time that I send you
the critiques of my new part, but the great morning newspapers have
taken no notice of poor Nina, it is only some of the weekly papers
that have observed the change in the part, and you will see that
they are very kind to me. Ah, but one--I do not send it--I could
not send it to you, Leo--it has made me cry much and much that any
one should have such malignity, such meanness, such lying. I
forget all the other ones? that one stabs my heart? but Mr. Carey
he laughs and says to me You are foolish? you do not know why that
is said of you? He is a great ally of Miss Burgoyne, he does not
like to see you take her place and be well received by the public.
Perhaps it is true; but, Leo, you do not like to be told that you
make the part stupid, that there is no life in it, that you are a
_machine_, that you sing out of tune. I have asked Mr. Lehmann, I
have asked Mr. Carey, and said to them If it is true, let me go? I
will not make ridicule of your theatre. But they are so kind to me;
and Mrs. Grey also; she says that I have not as much _cheek_ as
Miss Burgoyne, but that Grace Mainwaring should remember that she
is a gentlewoman, and it is not necessary to make her a laughing
waitress, although she is in comedy-opera. I cannot please every
one, Leo; but if you were here I should not care so much for the
_briccone_ who _lies_, who _lies_, who hides in the dark, like a
thief. You know whether I sing out of tune, Leo. You know whether I
am so stupid, so very stupid. Yes, I may not have _cheek_; I wish
not to have _cheek_; even to commend myself to a critic. Ah, well,
it is no use