And then in that world of visions that lies just outside the realm of
sleep--in which great things become small, and small things acquire a
fantastic and monstrous importance--she worried and fretted because
Lionel had laughingly complained on the previous evening that henceforth
there would be no more home-made lemonade for him. Well, now, if
she--that is to say, if Nina--were in her humble way to try what she
could do in that direction? It might not be so good as the lemonade that
Miss Burgoyne prepared; but perhaps Lionel would be a little generous
and make allowance? She would not challenge any comparison. She and Mrs.
Grey between them would do their best, and the result would be sent
anonymously to his rooms in Piccadilly; if he chose to accept it--well,
it was a timid little something by way of compensation. Nina forgot for
the moment that within the next few days an unlucky sword-thrust might
suddenly determine Lionel's interest in lemonade, as in all other
earthly things; these trivial matters grew large in this distorted land
of waking dreams; nay, she began to think that if she were to leave
England altogether, and go away back to Naples, and perhaps accept an
engagement in opera at Malta, then matters would be as before at the New
Theatre; and when Lionel and Miss Burgoyne met in the corridor, it would
be, "Good-evening, Miss Burgoyne!" and "Good-evening, Mr.
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