Club life had begun again, too. But most of all, at this time, Lionel
was disposed to enjoy that quiet and gentle companionship with Nina,
which was so simple and frank and unreserved. He could talk to her
freely, on all subjects save one--and that he was trying to put away
from himself in these altered circumstances. He and she had a community
of interests; there was never any lack of conversation--whether he were
down in Sloane Street, drinking tea and trying over new music with her,
or walking in with Miss Girond and her to the theatre through the now
almost leafless Green Park. Sometimes, when she was grown petulant and
fractious, he had to scold her into good-humor; sometimes she had
seriously to remonstrate with him; but it was all given and taken in
good part. He was never embarrassed or anxious in her society; he was
happy and content and careless, as she appeared to be also. He did not
trouble to invent any excuse for calling upon her; he went down to
Sloane Street just whenever he had a spare half-hour or hour; and if the
morning was bright, or even passable (for it was November now, and even
a tolerable sort of day was welcome), and if Miss Girond did not wish to
go out or had some other engagement, Nina and he would set off for a
stroll by themselves, up into Kensington Gardens, it might be, or along
Piccadilly, or through the busy crowds of Oxford Street; while they
looked at the shops and the passers-by, and talked about the theatre and
the people in it or about old days in Naples.
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