“Why have you asked for your recall?” she asked, slowly.
And still Cartoner made no answer. He was without rival in the art of leaving things unsaid. Then Martin came to them, laughing and talking. And across the course, amid the tag-rag and bobtail of Warsaw, the eyes of the man called Kosmaroff watched their every movement.
XIII
The Wheels of Chance
When Martin and Wanda returned to the grandstand they found the next box to theirs, which had hitherto been empty, occupied by a sedate party of foreigners. Miss Mangles had come to the races, not because she cared for sport, but because she had very wisely argued in her mind that one cannot set about to elevate human nature without a knowledge of those depths to which it sometimes descends.
“And this,” she said, when she had settled herself on the chair commanding the best view, “this is the turf.”
“That,” corrected Mr. Mangles, pointing down to the lawn with his umbrella, “is the turf. This is the grandstand.”
“The whole,” stated Miss Mangles, rather sadly, and indicating with a graceful wave of her card, which was in Russian and therefore illegible to her, the scene in general, “the whole constitutes the turf.”
Joseph P. Mangles sat corrected, and looked lugubriously at Netty, who was prettily and quietly dressed in autumnal tints, which set off her delicate and transparent complexion to perfection. Her hair was itself of an autumnal tint, and her eyes of the deep blue of October skies.
“And these young men are on it,” concluded Miss Mangles, with her usual decision. One privilege of her sex she had not laid aside—the privilege of jumping to conclusions. Netty glanced beneath her dark lashes in the direction indicated by Miss Mangles’ inexorable finger; but some of the young men happening to look up, she instantly became interested in the Russian race-card which she could not read.
“It is very sad,” she said.
Miss Mangles continued to look at the young men severely, as if making up her mind how best to take them in hand.
“Don’t see the worst of ’em here,” muttered Mr. Mangles, dismally. “It isn’t round about the grandstand that young men come to grief—on the turf. That contingent is waiting to be called up into the boxes, and reformed—by the young women.”
Netty looked gently distressed. At times she almost thought Uncle Joseph inclined to be coarse. She looked across the lawn with a rather wistful expression, eminently suited to dark blue eyes. The young men below were still glancing up in her direction, but she did not seem to see them. At this moment Wanda and Martin returned to their box. Wanda was preoccupied, and sat down without noticing the newcomers. Several ladies leaned over the low partitions and asked questions, which were unintelligible to Netty, and the news was spread from mouth to mouth that the Prince Bukaty was not hurt.
Joseph P. Mangles looked at the brother and sister beneath his heavy brows. He knew quite well who they were, but did not consider himself called upon to transmit the information.
“Even the best people seem to lend their countenance to this,” said Miss Mangles, in an undertone.
“You are right, Jooly.”
But Miss Mangles did not hear. She was engaged in bowing to Paul Deulin, who was coming up the steps. She was rather glad to see him, for the feeling had come over her that she was quite unknown to all these people. This is a feeling to which even the greatest are liable, and it is most unpleasant. For the heart of the celebrated is apt to hunger for the nudge of recognition and the surreptitious sidelong glance which convey the gratifying fact that one has been recognized. Paul Deulin would serve to enlighten these benighted people, and some little good might yet be done by a distinct and dignified attitude of disapproval towards the turf.
“One would scarcely expect to see you here, Mr. Deulin,” she said, shaking hands, with a playful shake of the head.
“Since you are here,” he answered, “there can be no harm. It is only a garden-party, after all.”
And he bowed over Netty’s head with an empressement which would have conveyed to anyone more versed in the ways of men the reason why he had come.
“Do you bet, Mr. Deulin?” inquired Jooly.
“Never, unless I am quite sure,” he answered.
“There is,” observed Miss Mangles, who was inclined to be gracious—“there is perhaps less harm in that.”
“And less risk,” explained Deulin gravely. “But surely,” he said, in a lower tone, turning to Netty, “you know the Princess Wanda? Did you not meet her at Lady Orlay’s?”
Netty had already displayed some interest in Martin Bukaty, which was perhaps indiscreet. For a young man’s vanity is singularly alert, and he was quite ready to return the interest with interest, so to speak.
“Yes,” she replied, “we met her at Lady Orlay’s. But I think she does not remember—though she seemed to recollect Mr. Cartoner, whom she met at the same time.”
Deulin looked at her with his quick smile as he nodded a little, comprehending nod, and Netty’s eyes looked into his innocently.
“Be assured,” he answered, “that she has not seen you, or she would not fail to remember you. You are sitting back to back, you observe. The princess is rather distrait with thoughts of her father, who has just had a slight mishap.”
He bent forward as he spoke and touched Wanda on the shoulder.
“Wanda,” he said, “this young lady remembers meeting you in London.”
Wanda turned and, rising, held her hand over the low barrier that divided the two boxes.
“Of course,” she said, “Miss Cahere. You must excuse my sitting down so near to you without seeing you. I was thinking of something else.”
“I hardly expect you to recollect me,” Netty hastened to say. “You must have met so many people in London. Is it not odd that so many who were at Lady Orlay’s that
