His spirits rose with the wine; and presently Falloden could have thought what he had seen from the dark had been a mere illusion.  A review in The Times of a book of Polish memoirs served to let loose a flood of boastful talk, which jarred abominably on the Englishman.  Under the Oxford code, to boast in plain language of your ancestors, or your own performances, meant simply that you were an outsider, not sure of your footing.  If a man really had ancestors, or more brains than other people, his neighbours saved him the trouble of talking about them.  Only the fools and the parvenus trumpeted themselves; a process in any case not worth while, since it defeated its own ends.  You might of course be as insolent or arrogant as you pleased; but only an idiot tried to explain why.

In Otto, however, there was the characteristic Slav mingling of quick wits with streaks of childish vanity.  He wanted passionately to make this tough Englishman feel what a great country Poland had been and would be again; what great people his ancestors had been; and what a leading part they had played in the national movements.  And the more he hit against an answering stubbornness—­or coolness—­in Falloden, the more he held forth.  So that it was an uncomfortable dinner.  And again Falloden said to himself—­“Why did I do it?  I am only in his way.  I shall bore and chill him; and I don’t seem to be able to help it.”

But after dinner, as the night frost grew sharper, and as Otto sat over the fire, piling on the coal, Falloden suddenly went and fetched a warm Scotch plaid of his own.  When he offered it, Radowitz received it with surprise, and a little annoyance.

“I am not the least cold—­thank you!”

But, presently, he had wrapped it round his knees; and some restraint had broken down in Falloden.

“Isn’t there a splendid church in Cracow?” he asked casually, stretching himself, with his pipe, in a long chair on the opposite side of the fire.

“One!—­five or six!” cried Otto indignantly.  “But I expect you’re thinking of Panna Marya.  Panna means Lady.  I tell you, you English haven’t got anything to touch it!”

“What’s it like?—­what date?” said Falloden, laughing.

“I don’t know—­I don’t know anything about architecture.  But it’s glorious.  It’s all colour and stained glass—­and magnificent tombs—­like the gate of heaven,” said the boy with ardour.  “It’s the church that every Pole loves.  Some of my ancestors are buried there.  And it’s the church where, instead of a clock striking, the hours are given out by a watchman who plays a horn.  He plays an old air—­ever so old—­we call it the ‘Heynal,’ on the top of one of the towers.  The only time I was ever in Cracow I heard a man at a concert—­a magnificent player—­improvise on it.  And it comes into one of Chopin’s sonatas.”