“It would be in the interests of humanity,” murmured Deulin, politely.  “It would add to the . . . wisdom of the nations.”

Across the table Netty was doing her best to make her uncle’s guest happy, seeking to please him in a thousand ways, which need not be described.

“I know,” she was saying at that moment, in not too loud a voice, “that you dislike political women.”  Heaven knows how she knew it.  “But I am afraid I must confess to taking a great interest in Poland.  Not the sort of interest you would dislike, I hope.  But a personal interest in the people.  I think I have never met people with quite the same qualities.”

“Their chief quality is gameness,” said Cartoner, thoughtfully.

“Yes, and that is just what appeals to English and Americans.  I think the princess is delightful—­do you not think so?”

“Yes,” answered Cartoner, looking straight in front of him.

“There must be a great many stories,” went on Netty, “connected with the story of the nation, which it would be so interesting to know—­of people’s lives, I mean—­of all they have attempted and have failed to do.”

Joseph was listening at his end of the table, with a kindly smile on his lined face.  He had, perhaps, a soft place in that cynical and dry heart for his niece, and liked to hear her simple talk.  Cartoner was listening, with a greater attention than the words deserved.  He was weighing them with a greater nicety than experienced social experts are in the habit of exercising over dinner-table talk.  And Deulin was talking hard, as usual, and listening at the same time; which is not by any means an easy thing to do.

“I always think,” continued Netty, “that the princess has a story.  There must, I mean, be some one at the mines or in Siberia, or somewhere terrible like that, of whom she is always thinking.”

And Netty’s eyes were quite soft with a tender sympathy, as she glanced at Cartoner.

“Perhaps,” put in Deulin, hastily, between two of Julie’s solemn utterances.  “Perhaps she is thinking of her brother—­Prince Martin.  He is always getting into scrapes—­ce jeune homme.”

But Netty shook her head.  She did not mean that sort of thought at all.

“It is your romantic heart,” said Deulin, “that makes you see so much that perhaps does not exist.”

“If you want a story,” put in Joseph Mangles, suddenly, in his deep voice, “I can tell you one.”

And because Joseph rarely spoke, he was accorded a silence.

“Waiter’s a Finn, and says he doesn’t understand English?” began Mangles, looking interrogatively at Deulin, beneath his great eyebrows.

“Which I believe to be the truth,” assented the Frenchman.