But as he walked along and up Regent Street (here were the
well-remembered shops that Nina and he used to glance into as they
passed idly on, talking sometimes, sometimes silent, but very well
content in each other's society) he began to ask himself whether in
truth he ought to seek out Nina and try to intercept her flight, even if
that were yet possible. Estelle's questions were significant. What would
he do, supposing he could induce Nina to come back? At present, he
vaguely wished to restore the old situation--to have Nina again among
her friends, happy in her work at the theatre, ready to go out for a
stroll with him if the morning were fine, he wanted his old comrade, who
was always so wise and prudent and cheerful, whom he could always please
by sending her down a new song, a new waltz, an Italian illustrated
journal, or some similar little token of remembrance. But if Estelle's
theory were the true one, _that_ Nina was gone forever, never to return;
her place was vacant now, never to be refilled; and somewhere or
other--perhaps hidden in London, perhaps on her way back to her native
land--there was a woman, proud, silent, and tearless, her heart
quivering from the blow that he had unintentionally dealt.
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