Netty found the street quite easily.  It was a sunny morning, and many shoppers were abroad.  In a degree she followed her uncle’s instructions, and instinct did the rest.  For the Senatorska is not an easy street to find.  The entrance to it is narrow and unpromising, like either end of Bond Street.

The Senatorska does not approach Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix, and Netty, who knew those thoroughfares, seemed to find little to interest her in the street where Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski—­that weak dreamer—­built his great opera-house and cultivated the ballet.  The shops are, indeed, not worthy of a close attention, and Netty was passing them indifferently enough when suddenly she became absorbed in the wares of a silver-worker.  Then she turned, with a little cry of surprise, to find a gentleman standing hatless beside her.  It was the Prince Martin Bukaty.

“I was afraid you did not remember me,” said Martin.  “You looked straight at me, and did not seem to recognize me.”

“Did I?  I am so short-sighted, you know.  I had not forgotten you.  Why should I?”

And Netty glanced at Martin in her little, gentle, appealing way, and then looked elsewhere rather hastily.

“Oh, you travellers must see so many people you cannot be expected to remember every one who is introduced to you at a race-meeting.”

“Of course,” said Netty, looking into the silversmith’s shop.  “One meets a great number of people, but not many that one likes.  Do you not find it so?”

“I am glad,” answered Martin, “that you do not meet many people that you like.”

“Oh, but you must not think that I dislike people,” urged Netty, in some concern; “I should be very ungrateful if I did.  Everybody is so kind.  Do you not find it so?  I hate people to be cynical.  There is much more kindness in the world than anybody suspects.  Do you not think so?”

“I do not know.  It has not come my way, perhaps.  It naturally would come in yours.”

And Martin looked down at her beneath the pink shade of her parasol with that kindness in his eyes of which Netty had had so large a share.

“Oh no!” she protested, with a little movement of the shoulders descriptive of a shrinking humility.  “Why should I?  I have done nothing to deserve it.  And yet, perhaps you are right.  Everybody is so kind—­my uncle and aunt—­everybody.  I am very fortunate, I am sure.  I wonder why it is?”

And she looked up inquiringly into Martin’s face as if he could tell her, and, indeed, he looked remarkably as if he could—­if he dared.  He had never met anybody quite like Netty—­so spontaneous and innocent and easy to get on with.  Conversation with her was so interesting and yet so little trouble.  She asked a hundred questions which were quite easy to answer; and were not stupid little questions about the weather, but had a human interest in them, especially when she looked up like that from under her parasol, and there was a pink glow on her face, and her eyes were dark, almost as violets.