“You always look, mademoiselle, as if you had come straight from heaven,” answered Deulin, looking at Miss Cahere, whose hand was at her hair.  It was pretty hair and a pretty, slim, American hand.  But she did not seem to hear, for she had turned away quickly and was speaking to her uncle.  Deulin accompanied them along the corridor, which is a long one, for the Hotel de l’Europe is a huge quadrangle.

“You startled me by your sudden appearance, you know,” she said, turning again to the Frenchman, which was probably intended for an explanation of her heightened color.  She was one of those fortunate persons who blush easily—­at the right time.  “I am sure Uncle Joseph will be pleased to have you in the same hotel.  Of course, we know no one in Warsaw.  Have you friends here?”

“Only one,” replied Deulin—­“the waiter who serves the Zakuska counter down-stairs.  I knew him when he was an Austrian nobleman, travelling for his health in France.  He does not recognize me now.”

“Will you stay long?”

“I did not intend to,” replied Deulin, “when I came out of my room this morning.”

“But you and Mr. Cartoner have Polish friends, have you not?” asked Netty.

“Not in Warsaw,” was the reply.

“Suppose we shall meet again,” broke in Joseph Mangles at this moment, halting on the threshold of the gorgeous apartment.  He tapped the number on the door in order to draw Deulin’s attention to it.  “Always welcome,” he said.  “Funny we should meet here.  Means mischief, I suppose.”

“I suppose it does,” answered Deulin, looking guilelessly at Netty.

He took his leave and continued his way down-stairs.  Out in the Krakowski Faubourg the sun was shining brightly and the world was already astir, while the shops were opening and buyers already hurrying home from the morning markets.  It is a broad street, with palaces and churches on either side.  Every palace has its story; two of them were confiscated by the Russian government because a bomb, which was thrown from the pavement, might possibly have come from one of the windows.  Every church has rung to the strains of the forbidden Polish hymn—­“At Thy altar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, O Lord, our free country.”  Into almost all of them the soldiers have forced their way to make arrests.

Paul Deulin walked slowly up the faubourg towards the new town.  The clocks were striking the hour.  He took off his hat, and gave a little sigh of enjoyment of the fresh air and bright sun.

“Just Heaven, forgive me!” he said, with upturned eyes.  “I have already told several lies, and it is only eight o’clock.  I wonder whether I shall find Cartoner out of bed?”

He walked on in a leisurely way, brushing past Jew and Gentile, gay Cossack officers, and that dull Polish peasant who has assuredly lived through greater persecution than any other class of men.  He turned to the right up a broad street and then to the left into a narrower, quieter thoroughfare, called the Jasna.  The houses in the Jasna are mostly large, with court-yards, where a few trees struggle for existence.  They are let out in flats, or in even smaller apartments, where quiet people live—­professors, lawyers, and other persons, who have an interest within themselves and are not dependent on the passer-by for entertainment.