“Yes,” answered Wanda, rather absently. “Are there many?”
“Why, yes. Mr. Deulin was there, and yourself and the prince and we three and—Mr. Cartoner.”
She looked round as she spoke for Cartoner, but only met Martin Bukaty’s eyes fixed upon her with open admiration. When speaking she had much animation, and her eyes were bright.
“I am sure you are here with your brother. The likeness is unmistakable. I hope the prince is not hurt?” she said, in her little, friendly, confidential way to Wanda.
“No, he is not hurt, thank you. Yes, that is my brother. May I introduce him? Martin. Miss Cahere—my brother.”
And the introduction was effected, which was perhaps what Netty wanted. She did not take much notice of Martin, but continued to talk to Wanda.
“It must be so interesting,” she said, “to live in Warsaw and to be able to help the poor people who are so downtrodden.”
“But I do nothing of that sort,” replied Wanda. “It is only in books that women can do anything for the people of their country. All I can do for Poland is to see that one old Polish gentleman gets what he likes for dinner, and to housekeep generally—just as you do when you are at home, no doubt.”
“Oh,” protested Netty, “but I am not so useful as that. That is what distresses me. I seem to be of no use to anybody. And I am sure I could never housekeep.”
And some faint line of thought, suggested perhaps by the last remark, made her glance in passing at Martin. It was so quick that only Martin saw it. At all events, Paul Deulin appeared to be looking rather vacantly in another direction.
“I suppose Miss Mangles does all that when you are at home?” said Wanda, glancing towards the great woman, who was just out of earshot.
“My dear Wanda,” put in Deulin, in a voice of gravest protest, “you surely do not expect that of a lady who housekeeps for all humanity. Miss Mangles is one of our leaders of thought. I saw her so described in a prominent journal of Smithville, Ohio. Miss Mangles, in her care for the world, has no time to think of an individual household.”
“Besides,” said Netty, “we have no settled home in America. We live differently. We have not the comfort of European life.”
And she gave a little sigh, looking wistfully across the plain. Martin noticed that she had a pretty profile, and the tenderest little droop of the lips.
At this moment a race, the last on the card, put a stop to further conversation, and Netty refused, very properly, to deprive Martin of the use of his field-glasses.
“I can see,” she said, in her confidential way, “well enough for myself with my own eyes.”
And Martin looked into the eyes, so vaunted, with much interest.
“I am sure,” she said to Wanda, when the race was over, “that I saw Mr. Cartoner a short time ago. Has he gone?”
“I fancy he has,” was the reply.
“He did not see us. And we quite forgot to tell him the number of our box. I only hope he was not offended. We saw a great deal of him on board. We crossed the Atlantic in the same ship, you know.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. And one becomes so intimate on a voyage. It is quite ridiculous.”
Deulin, leaning against the pillar at the back of the box, was thoughtfully twisting his grizzled mustache as he watched Netty. There was in his attitude some faint suggestion of an engineer who has set a machine in motion and is watching the result with a contemplative satisfaction.
Martin was reluctantly making a move. One or two carriages were allowed to come to the gate of the lawn, and of these one was Prince Bukaty’s.
“Come, Wanda,” said Martin. “We must not keep him waiting. I can see him, with his two sticks, coming out of the club enclosure.”
“I will go with you to make sure that he is none the worse,” said Deulin, “and then return to the assistance of these ladies.”
He did not speak as they moved slowly through the crowd. Nor did he explain to Wanda why he had reintroduced Miss Cahere. He stood watching the carriages after they had gone.
“The gods forbid,” he said, piously, to himself, “that I should attempt to interfere in the projects of Providence! But it is well that Wanda should know who are her friends and who her enemies. And I think she knows now, my shrewd princess.”
And he bowed, bareheaded, in response to a gay wave of the hand from Wanda as the carriage turned the corner and disappeared. He turned on his heel, to find himself cut off from the grandstand by a dense throng of people moving rather confusedly towards the exit. The sky was black, and a shower was impending.
“Ah, well!” he muttered, philosophically, “they are capable of taking care of themselves.”
And he joined the throng making for the gates. It appeared, however, that he gave more credit than was merited; for Netty was carried along by a stream of people whose aim was a gate to the left of the great gate, and though she saw the hat of her uncle above the hats of the other men, she could not make her way towards it. Mr. Mangles and his sister passed out of the large gateway, and waited in the first available space beyond it. Netty was carried by the gentle pressure of the crowd to the smaller gate, and having passed it, decided to wait till her uncle, who undoubtedly must have seen her, should come in search of her. She was not uneasy. All through her life she had always found people, especially men, ready, nay, anxious, to be kind to her. She was looking round for Mr. Mangles when a man came towards her. He was only a workman in his best suit of working clothes. He had a narrow, sunburned face, and there was in his whole being a
