But he did not go straight to his lodgings. He wandered away aimlessly through the dark streets. He felt sick at heart--not especially because of this imbroglio into which he had walked with open eyes, for that did not seem to matter much, one way or the other. But everything appeared to have gone wrong with him since Nina had left; and the worst of it was that he was gradually ceasing to care how things went, right or wrong. At this moment, for example, he ought to have been thinking of the situation he had created for himself, and resolving either to get out of it before more harm was done, or to loyally fulfil his contract by cultivating what affection for Miss Burgoyne was possible in the circumstances. But he was not thinking of Miss Burgoyne at all. He was thinking of Nina. He was thinking how hard it was that whenever his fancy went in search of her--away to Malta, to Australia, to the United States, as it might be--he could not hope to find a Nina whom he could recognize. For she would be quite changed now. His imagination could not picture to himself a Nina grown grave and sad-eyed, perhaps furtively hiding her sorrow, fearing to encounter her friends. The Nina whom he had always known was a light-hearted and laughing companion, eagerly talkative, a smile on her parted lips, affection, kindliness ever present in her shining, soft, dark eyes. Sometimes silent, too; sometimes, again, singing a fragment of one of the old familiar folk-songs of her youth. What was that one with the refrain, "_Io te voglio bene assaje, e tu non pienz' a me_"?-- "La notta tutte dormeno, E io che buo dormire! Pensanno a Nenna mia Mme sent' ascevoli. Li quarte d' ora sonano A uno, a doje e tre... Io te voglio bene assaje, E tu non pienz' a me!"