“Ought I to be here?” she asked.  “Going about the streets alone, I mean?”

“You are not alone,” answered Martin, with a laugh.

“No, but—­perhaps I ought to be.”

And Martin, looking down, saw nothing but the top of the pink parasol.

“In America, you know,” said the voice from under the parasol, “girls are allowed to do so much more than in Europe.  And it is always best to be careful, is it not?—­to follow the customs of the country, I mean.  In France and Germany people are so particular.  I wanted to ask you what is the custom in Warsaw.”

Martin stepped to one side in order to avoid the parasol.

“In Warsaw you can do as you like.  We are not French, and Heaven forbid that we should resemble the Germans in anything.  Here every one goes about the streets as they do in England or America.”

As if to confirm this, he walked on slowly, and she walked by his side.

“I can show you the best shops,” he said, “such as they are.  This is Ulrich’s, the flower shop.  Those violets are Russian.  The only good thing I ever heard of that came from Russia.  Do you like violets?”

“I love them,” answered Netty, and she walked on rather hurriedly to the next shop.

“You would naturally.”

“Why?” asked Netty, looking with a curious interest at the packets of tea in the Russian shop next to Ulrich’s.

“Is it not the correct thing to select the flower that matches the eyes?”

“It is very kind of you to say that,” said Netty, in a voice half-afraid, half-reproachful.

“It is very kind of Heaven to give you such eyes,” answered Martin, gayly.  He was more and more surprised to find how easy it was to get on with Netty, whom he seemed to have known all his life.  Like many lively persons, he rather liked a companion to possess a vein of gravity, and this Netty seemed to have.  He was sure that she was religious and very good.

“You know,” said Netty, hastily, and ignoring his remark, “I am much interested in Poland.  It is such a romantic country.  People have done such great things, have they not, in Poland?  I mean the nobles—­and the poor peasants, too in their small way, I suppose?”

“The nobles have come to great grief in Poland—­that is all,” replied Martin, with a short laugh.

“And it is so sad,” said Netty, with a shake of the head; “but I am sure it will all come right some day.  Do you think so?  I am sure you are interested in Poland—­you and your sister and your father.”

“We are supposed to be,” admitted Martin.  “But no one cares for Poland now, I am afraid.  The rest of the world has other things to think of, and, in England and America, Poland is forgotten now—­and her history, which is the saddest history of any nation in the world.”

“But I am sure you are wrong there,” said Netty, earnestly.  “I know a great number of people who are sorry for the Poles and interested in them.”