She was looking towards the colonnade that marks the site of the King of Saxony’s palace, when Cartoner came through the archway into the garden.  She recognized him even at this distance, for his walk was unlike that of the nervous, quick-moving Pole or the lurking Jew.  It was more like the gait of a Russian; but all the Russians in Warsaw wear a uniform.  That is why they are there.  There was a suggestion of determination in the walk of this Englishman.

He came down the wide alley towards her, and then suddenly perceived her.  She saw this without actually looking at him, and knew the precise moment when he first caught sight of her.  It was presumably upon experience that Wanda based her theory that women see twice as much as men.  She saw him turn, without hesitation, away from her down a narrower alley leading to the right.  It was his intention to avoid her.  But the only turning he could take was that leading to the corner of Kotzebue Street, and Martin was at the other end of it, coming towards him.  Cartoner was thus caught in the narrow alley.  Wanda sat still and watched the two men.  She suddenly knew in advance what would happen, as it is often vouchsafed to the human understanding to know at a moment’s notice what is coming; and she had a strange, discomforting sense that these minutes were preordained—­that Martin and Cartoner and herself were mere puppets in the hands of Fate, and must say and do that which has been assigned to them in an unalterable scheme of succeeding events.

She watched the two men meet and shake hands, in the English fashion, without raising their hats.  She could see Cartoner’s movements to continue his way, and Martin’s detaining hand slipped within the Englishman’s arm.

“What does it matter?” Martin was saying.  “There is no one to see us here, at this hour in the morning.  We are quite safe.  There is Wanda, sitting on the seat, waiting for me.  Come back with me.”

And Wanda could divine the words easily enough from her brother’s attitude and gestures.  It ought to have surprised her that Cartoner yielded, for it was unlike him.  He was so much stronger than Martin—­so determined, so unyielding.  And yet she felt no surprise when he turned and came towards her with Martin’s hand still within his arm.  She knew that it was written that he must come; divined vaguely that he had something to say to her which it was safer to say than to leave to be silently understood and perhaps misunderstood.  She gave an impatient sigh.  She had always ruled her father and brother and the Palace Bukaty, and this sense of powerlessness was new to her.

While they approached, Martin continued to talk in his eager, laughing way, and Cartoner smiled slowly as he listened.

“I saw you,” he said to Wanda, as he took off his hat, “and went the other way to avoid you.”

And, having made this plain statement, he stood silently looking at her.  He looked into her eyes, and she met his odd, direct gaze without embarrassment.