He bent forward as he spoke and touched Wanda on the shoulder.

“Wanda,” he said, “this young lady remembers meeting you in London.”

Wanda turned and, rising, held her hand over the low barrier that divided the two boxes.

“Of course,” she said, “Miss Cahere.  You must excuse my sitting down so near to you without seeing you.  I was thinking of something else.”

“I hardly expect you to recollect me,” Netty hastened to say.  “You must have met so many people in London.  Is it not odd that so many who were at Lady Orlay’s that night should be in Warsaw to-day?”

“Yes,” answered Wanda, rather absently.  “Are there many?”

“Why, yes.  Mr. Deulin was there, and yourself and the prince and we three and—­Mr. Cartoner.”

She looked round as she spoke for Cartoner, but only met Martin Bukaty’s eyes fixed upon her with open admiration.  When speaking she had much animation, and her eyes were bright.

“I am sure you are here with your brother.  The likeness is unmistakable.  I hope the prince is not hurt?” she said, in her little, friendly, confidential way to Wanda.

“No, he is not hurt, thank you.  Yes, that is my brother.  May I introduce him?  Martin.  Miss Cahere—­my brother.”

And the introduction was effected, which was perhaps what Netty wanted.  She did not take much notice of Martin, but continued to talk to Wanda.

“It must be so interesting,” she said, “to live in Warsaw and to be able to help the poor people who are so down-trodden.”

“But I do nothing of that sort,” replied Wanda.  “It is only in books that women can do anything for the people of their country.  All I can do for Poland is to see that one old Polish gentleman gets what he likes for dinner, and to housekeep generally—­just as you do when you are at home, no doubt.”

“Oh,” protested Netty, “but I am not so useful as that.  That is what distresses me.  I seem to be of no use to anybody.  And I am sure I could never housekeep.”

And some faint line of thought, suggested perhaps by the last remark, made her glance in passing at Martin.  It was so quick that only Martin saw it.  At all events, Paul Deulin appeared to be looking rather vacantly in another direction.

“I suppose Miss Mangles does all that when you are at home?” said Wanda, glancing towards the great woman, who was just out of ear-shot.

“My dear Wanda,” put in Deulin, in a voice of gravest protest, “you surely do not expect that of a lady who housekeeps for all humanity.  Miss Mangles is one of our leaders of thought.  I saw her so described in a prominent journal of Smithville, Ohio.  Miss Mangles, in her care for the world, has no time to think of an individual household.”

“Besides,” said Netty, “we have no settled home in America.  We live differently.  We have not the comfort of European life.”

And she gave a little sigh, looking wistfully across the plain.  Martin noticed that she had a pretty profile, and the tenderest little droop of the lips.