Nina was in an excellent humor now.  She helped her grandfather with his cooking, and by-and-by, as the day wore on, she tempted him to come for a stroll with her.  She spoke very little of her present life, nor did he question her.  He had a certain fondness for his grandchild, but it never rose to the extent of a genuine interest in her concerns.  Of late she had been to him a valuable chattel—­a trump-card, by which he could extract the good things of life out of another.  With Nina he was powerful, without her he was a helpless and penniless old man.  But he did not love Nina because of this.  He was proud of her for what she brought him, proud of her because if he was lowly born she was not.  But he loved her, after the slight fashion with which alone he could bestow love, because, notwithstanding that good birth, she also belonged to him—­she was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh.  The ties of blood were strong with him, and because of these ties he loved her after his fashion.

The two came home presently and partook of supper together.  Nina bought some figs and peaches, and they had quite a dainty meal.  Nina herself prepared the board, and she put the decanter with the amber wine close to the old man.  He ate and drank.  He said the wine was good, and he helped himself twice to the sparkling contents of the decanter.  “I feel in spirits to-night, Nina,” he said, looking at his grandchild.

“Have a little more wine, Grand-dad,” she said, in retort.

In spite of all her efforts, her voice had an anxious ring in it as she spoke.  He looked at her keenly.  He was as suspicious as man could be.  He half-stretched out his hand to seize the decanter, then with a sly smile he replaced the stopper in the neck of the bottle.

“No, no, witch,” he said.  “This wine is rare and precious.  It raises the spirit and warms the heart.  I have not much more wine from so rare a vintage, and I’ll keep what’s in the bottle for another night, when you, pretty Nina, are far away, and the spirits of the old man fail him.”

“Do,” she said.  “Keep the precious wine, you don’t need it to-night.”

Then she handed him his pipe, and after a time he became drowsy and went to bed.

Hart’s bedroom was a small attic inside the larger one.  He shut the door, looked round for the key, for he generally locked himself in, could not find it, and then, being very drowsy, undressed and went to bed.

Nina was to sleep on the sofa in the sitting-room.  She lay down, took a novel out of her pocket, and tried to read.  Her heart was beating hard, and that burning fever of unrest and longing which was consuming her very life, kept coursing madly through her veins.

“The fever is my wine,” she muttered.  “At first it supplies false strength, false cheer, false hope.  Afterwards—­afterwards—­” a queer look came into her strange face—­“I too, shall rest and sleep.”

Profound stillness reigned in the next room.  Nina softly rose, and going to the sideboard took out the decanter of wine, opened a window, and emptied it into the area below.  She washed the decanter afterwards and then put it back into the sideboard.