It happened that he did see Cartoner; for the square below the windows was well lighted. He saw Cartoner turn out of the Krakow Faubourg into the square, where innumerable droskies stand. He saw, moreover, a man arrive at the corner immediately afterwards, as if he had been following Cartoner, and, standing there, watch him pass into the side door of the hotel.
Deulin reflected for a moment. Then he went into his bedroom, and took his coat and hat and stick. He hurried downstairs with them, and gave them into the care of the porter at the side door, whose business it is to take charge of the effects of the numerous diners in the restaurant. When he entered the Mangles’ drawing-room a few minutes later he found the party assembled there. Netty was dressed in white, with some violets at her waistband. She was listening to her aunt and Cartoner, who were talking together, and Deulin found himself relegated to the society of the hospitable Joseph at the other end of the room.
“You’re looking at Cartoner as if he owed you money,” said Mr. Mangles, bluntly.
“I was looking at him with suspicion,” admitted Deulin, “but not on that account. No one owes me money. It is the other way round, and it is not I who need to be anxious, but the other party, you understand. No, I was looking at our friend because I thought he was lively. Did he strike you as lively when he came in?”
“Not what I should call a vivacious man,” said Mangles, looking dismally across the room. “There was a sort of ripple on his serene calm as he came in perhaps.”
“Yes,” said Deulin, in a low voice. “That is bad. There is usually something wrong when Cartoner is lively. He is making an effort, you know.”
They went towards the others, Deulin leading the way.
“What beautiful violets,” said he to Netty. “Surely Warsaw did not produce those?”
“Yes, they are pretty,” answered Netty, making a little movement to show the flowers to greater advantage to Deulin and to Cartoner also. Her waist was very round and slender. “They came from that shop in the Senatorska or the Wirzbowa, I forget, quite, which street. Ulrich, I think, was the name.”
And she apparently desired to let the subject drop there.
“Yes,” said Deulin, slowly. “Ulrich is the name. And you are fond of violets?”
“I love them.”
Deulin was making a silent, mental note of the harmless taste, when dinner was announced.
“It was I who recommended Netty to investigate the Senatorska,” said Mr. Mangles, when they were seated. But Netty did not wish to be made the subject of the conversation any longer. She was telling Cartoner, who sat next to her, a gay little story, connected with some piece of steamer gossip known only to himself and her. Is it not an accepted theory that quiet men like best those girls who are lively?
Miss Mangles dispensed her brother’s hospitality with that rather labored ease of manner to which superior women are liable at such times as they are pleased to desire their inferiors to feel comfortable, and to enjoy themselves according to their lights.
Deulin perceived the situation at once, and sought information respecting Poland, which was most graciously accorded him.
“And you have actually walked through the Jewish quarter?” he said, noting, with the tail of his eye, that Cartoner was absentminded.
“I entered the Franciszkanska near the old church of St. John, and traversed the whole length of the street.”
“And you formed an opinion upon the Semitic question in this country?” asked the Frenchman, earnestly.
“I have.”
And Deulin turned to his salmon, while Miss Mangles swept away in a few chosen phrases the difficulties that have puzzled statesmen for fifteen hundred years.
“I shall read a paper upon it at one of our historical Women’s Congress meetings—and I may publish,” she said.
“It would be in the interests of humanity,” murmured Deulin, politely. “It would add to the … wisdom of the nations.”
Across the table Netty was doing her best to make her uncle’s guest happy, seeking to please him in a thousand ways, which need not be described.
“I know,” she was saying at that moment, in not too loud a voice, “that you dislike political women.” Heaven knows how she knew it. “But I am afraid I must confess to taking a great interest in Poland. Not the sort of interest you would dislike, I hope. But a personal interest in the people. I think I have never met people with quite the same qualities.”
“Their chief quality is gameness,” said Cartoner, thoughtfully.
“Yes, and that is just what appeals to English and Americans. I think the princess is delightful—do you not think so?”
“Yes,” answered Cartoner, looking straight in front of him.
“There must be a great many stories,” went on Netty, “connected with the story of the nation, which it would be so interesting to know—of people’s lives, I mean—of all they have attempted and have failed to do.”
Joseph was listening at his end of the table, with a kindly smile on his lined face. He had, perhaps, a soft place in that cynical and dry heart for his niece, and liked to hear her simple talk. Cartoner was listening, with a greater attention than the words deserved. He was weighing them with a greater nicety than experienced social experts are in the habit of exercising over dinner-table talk. And Deulin was talking hard, as usual, and listening at the same time; which is not by any means an easy thing to do.
“I always think,” continued Netty, “that the princess has a story. There must, I mean, be someone at the mines or in Siberia, or somewhere terrible like that, of whom she is always thinking.”
And Netty’s eyes were quite soft with a tender sympathy, as she glanced at Cartoner.
“Perhaps,” put in Deulin, hastily, between two of Jooly’s solemn utterances. “Perhaps she is thinking of her brother—Prince Martin. He is always getting into scrapes—ce jeune homme.”
But Netty shook her head. She did
