“I cannot understand,” she said, “why everybody is so kind to me.”

“It is because you are so kind to everybody,” he answered, with that air of appearing to mean more than he said, which he seemed to reserve for Netty.

“I do not understand Mr. Deulin,” said Netty to her uncle one day.  “Why does he stay here?  What is he doing here?”

And Joseph P. Mangles merely stuck his chin forward, and said in his deepest tones: 

“You had better ask him!”

“But he would not tell me.”

“No.”

“And Mr. Cartoner,” continued Netty, “I understood he was coming back, but he does not seem to come.  No one seems to know.  It is so difficult to get information about the merest trifles.  Not that I care, of course, who comes and who goes.”

“Course not,” said Mangles.

After a pause, Netty looked up again from her work.

“Uncle,” she said, “I was wondering if there was anything wrong in Warsaw.”

“What made you wonder that?”

“I do not know.  It feels, sometimes, as if there were something wrong.  Mr. Cartoner went away so suddenly.  The people in the streets are so odd and quiet.  And down stairs in the restaurant, at dinner, I see them exchange glances when the Russian officers come into the room.  I distrust the quietness of the people, and—­uncle—­Mr. Deulin’s gayety—­I distrust that, too.  And then, you; you so often ask us to go away and leave you here alone.”

Mangles laughed, curtly, and folded his newspaper.

“Because it is a dull hole,” he said, “that is why I want you to go away.  It has got on your nerves.  It is because you have not lived in a conquered country before.  All conquered countries are like that.”

Which was a very long explanation for Joseph Mangles to make.  And he never again proposed that Netty and her aunt should go to Nice.  But Netty’s curiosity was not satisfied, and she knew that Deulin would answer no question seriously.  Why did not Kosmaroff come back?  Why did Cartoner stay away?  As soon as etiquette allowed, she called at the Bukaty Palace.  She made an excuse in some illustrated English and American magazines which might interest the Princess Wanda.  But there was no one at home.  She understood from the servant, who spoke a little German, that they had gone to their country house, a few miles from Warsaw.

The next morning Netty went for a walk in the Saski Gardens.  The weather had changed suddenly.  It was quite mild and springlike.  At last the grip of winter seemed to be slackening.  There were others in the gardens who held their faces up to the sky, and breathed in the softer air with a sort of expectancy; who seemed to wonder if the winter had really broken, or if this should only be a false hope.  It was one of the first days in March—­a month wherein all nature slowly stirs after her long sleep, and men pull themselves together to new endeavor.  The majority of great events in the world’s history have taken place in the spring months.  Is not the Ides of March written large in the story of this planet?