Miss Netty quietly relieved her aunt of the small impedimenta of travel, with a gentle deference which was better than words. Miss Cahere seemed always to know how to say or do the right thing, or, more difficult still, to keep the right silence. Either this, or the fact that Miss Mangles was conscious of having convinced her hearers that she was as expert in the lighter swordplay of debate as in the rolling platform period, somewhat alleviated the lady’s humor, and she turned towards the historic staircase, which had run with the blood of Jew and Pole, with a distinct air of condescension.
“Tell me,” said Mr. Joseph Mangles to the concierge, in a voice of deep depression which only added to the incongruity of his French, “what languages you speak.”
“Russian, French, Polish, German, English—”
“That’ll do to go on with,” interrupted Mangles, in his own tongue. “We’ll get along in English. My name is Mangles.”
Whereupon the porter bowed low, as to one for whom first-floor rooms and a salon had been bespoken, and waved his hand towards the stairs, where stood a couple of waiters.
Of the party, Miss Cahere alone appeared cool and composed and neat. She might, to judge from her bright eyes and delicate complexion, have slept all night in a comfortable bed. Her hat and her hair had the appearance of having been arranged at leisure by a maid. Miss Netty had on the surface a little manner of self-depreciating flurry which sometimes seemed to conceal a deep and abiding calm. She had little worldly theories, too, which she often enunciated in her confidential manner; and one of these was that one should always, in all places and at all times, be neat and tidy, for no one knows whom one may meet. And, be it noted in passing, there have been many successful human careers based upon this simple rule.
She followed the waiter upstairs with that soft rustle of the dress which conveys even in the obtuse masculine mind a care for clothes and the habit of dealing with a good dressmaker. At the head of the stairs she gave a little cry of surprise, for Paul Deulin was coming along the broad corridor towards her, swinging the key of his bedroom and nonchalantly humming an air from a recent comic opera. He was, it appeared, as much at home here as in London or Paris or New York.
“Ah, mademoiselle!” he said, standing hat in hand before her, “who could have dreamed of such a pleasure—here and at this moment—in this sad town?”
“You seemed gay enough—you were singing,” answered Miss Cahere.
“It was a sad little air, mademoiselle, and I was singing flat. Perhaps you noticed it?”
“No, I never know when people are singing flat or not. I have no ear for music. I only know when I like to hear a person’s voice. I have no accomplishments, you know,” said Netty, with a little humble drawing-in of the shoulders.
“Ah!” said Deulin, with a gesture which conveyed quite clearly his opinion that she had need of none. And he turned to greet Miss Mangles and her brother.
Miss Mangles received him coldly. Even the greatest of women is liable to feminine moments, and may know when she is not looking her best. She shook hands, with her platform bow—from the waist—and passed on.
“Hallo!” said Joseph Mangles. “Got here before us? Thought you’d turn up. Dismal place, eh?”
“You have just arrived, I suppose?” said Deulin.
“Oh, please don’t laugh at us!” broke in Netty. “Of course you can see that. You must know that we have just come out of a sleeping-car!”
“You always look, mademoiselle, as if you had come straight from heaven,” answered Deulin, looking at Miss Cahere, whose hand was at her hair. It was pretty hair and a pretty, slim, American hand. But she did not seem to hear, for she had turned away quickly and was speaking to her uncle. Deulin accompanied them along the corridor, which is a long one, for the Hôtel de l’Europe is a huge quadrangle.
“You startled me by your sudden appearance, you know,” she said, turning again to the Frenchman, which was probably intended for an explanation of her heightened color. She was one of those fortunate persons who blush easily—at the right time. “I am sure Uncle Joseph will be pleased to have you in the same hotel. Of course, we know no one in Warsaw. Have you friends here?”
“Only one,” replied Deulin—“the waiter who serves the Zakuska counter downstairs. I knew him when he was an Austrian nobleman, travelling for his health in France. He does not recognize me now.”
“Will you stay long?”
“I did not intend to,” replied Deulin, “when I came out of my room this morning.”
“But you and Mr. Cartoner have Polish friends, have you not?” asked Netty.
“Not in Warsaw,” was the reply.
“Suppose we shall meet again,” broke in Joseph Mangles at this moment, halting on the threshold of the gorgeous apartment. He tapped the number on the door in order to draw Deulin’s attention to it. “Always welcome,” he said. “Funny we should meet here. Means mischief, I suppose.”
“I suppose it does,” answered Deulin, looking guilelessly at Netty.
He took his leave and continued his way downstairs. Out in the Krakowski Faubourg the sun was shining brightly and the world was already astir, while the shops were opening and buyers already hurrying home from the morning markets. It is a broad street, with palaces and churches on either side. Every palace has its story; two of them were confiscated by the Russian government because a bomb, which was thrown from the pavement, might possibly have come from one of the windows. Every church has rung to the strains of the forbidden Polish hymn—“At Thy altar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, O Lord, our free country.” Into almost all of
