“It was very kind of you,” said Netty, “to think of me at the race-meeting the other day, and to introduce me to the Bukatys.  I am so interested in the princess.  She is so pretty, is she not?  Such lovely hair, and I think her face is so interesting—­a face with a history, is it not?”

“Yes,” answered Deulin, rather shortly, “Wanda is a nice girl.”  He did not seem to find the subject pleasing, and Netty changed her ground.

“And the prince,” she said, “the old one, I mean—­for this one, Prince Martin, is quite a boy, is he not?”

“Oh yes—­quite a boy,” replied Deulin, absently, as he looked back over his shoulder and saw Martin hurry into the flower-shop where he had first perceived Netty and the young prince talking together.

“It is so sad that they are ruined—­if they are really ruined.”

“There is no doubt whatever about that,” answered Deulin.

“But,” said Netty, who was practical, “could nothing induce him—­the young prince, I mean—­to abandon all these vague political dreams and accept the situation as it is, and settle down to develop his estates and recover his position?”

“You mean,” said Deulin, “the domestic felicities.  Your fine and sympathetic heart would naturally think of that.  You go about the world like an unemployed and wandering angel, seeking to make the lives of others happier.  Those are dreams, and in Poland dreams are forbidden—­by the Czar.  But they are the privilege of youth, and I like to catch an occasional glimpse of your gentle dreams, my dear young lady.”

Netty smiled a little pathetically, and glanced up at him beneath her lashes, which were dark as lashes should be that veil violet eyes.

“Now you are laughing at me, because I am not clever,” she said.

“Heaven forbid!  But I am laughing at your dream for Martin Bukaty.  He will never come to what you suggest as the cure for his unsatisfactory life.  He has too much history behind him, which is a state of things never quite understood in your country, mademoiselle.  Moreover, he has not got it in him.  He is not stable enough for the domestic felicities, and Siberia—­his certain destination—­is not a good mise-en-scene for your dream.  No, you must not hope to do good to your fellow-beings here, though it is natural that you should seek the ever-evasive remedy—­another privilege of youth.”

“You talk as if you were so very old,” said Netty, reproachfully.

“I am very, very old,” he replied, with a laugh.  “And there is no remedy for that.  Even your kind heart can supply no cure for old age.”

“I reserve my charity and my cures for really deserving cases,” answered Netty, lightly.  “I think you are quite capable of taking care of yourself.”

“And of evolving my own dreams?” he inquired.  But she made no answer, and did not appear to notice the glance of his tired, dark eyes.

“I know so little,” she said, after a pause, “so very little of Poland or Polish history.  I suppose you know everything—­you and Mr. Cartoner?”