“Well, there is reason in that,” Brand said, reflectively.  “And I am inclined to be friendly with every one to-night, Signor Calabressa.  It may be that Lind has his reasons; and he is the natural guardian of his daughter—­at present.  But she might have another guardian, Signor Calabressa?”

“The wicked one!—­she has promised herself to you?  And she told me she had no sweethearts, the rogue!”

“No, she has not promised.  But what may not one dare to hope for, when one sees her so generous and kind?  She is like her mother, is she not?  Now I am going to slip away, Signor Calabressa; when you have had another cigarette, will you go up-stairs and explain to the two ladies that I have three friends who are now dining at my house, and I must get back to them?”

Calabressa rose, and took the taller man’s hand in his.

“I think our little Natalushka is right in trusting herself to you; I think you will be kind to her; I know you will be brave enough to protect her.  All very well.  But you English are so headstrong.  Why not a little caution, a little prudence, to smooth the way through life?”

Brand laughed:  but he had taken a liking to this odd-looking man.

“Now, good-night, Signor Calabressa.  You have done me a great service.  And if Natalie’s mother wishes to see her daughter—­well, I think the opportunity will come.  In the mean time, I will be quite cautious and prudent, and compromise nobody; even if I cannot wholly promise to tremble at the name of the Invulnerable and the Implacable.”

“Ah, monsieur,” said Calabressa, with a sigh, his gay gesticulation having quite left him, “I hope I have done no mischief.  It was all for the little Natalushka.  It will be so much better for you and for her to be on good terms with Ferdinand Lind.”

“We will see,” Brand said, lightly.  “The people in this part of the world generally do as they’re done by.”

CHAPTER XIX.

AT THE CULTURVEREIN.

On calm reflection, Calabressa gave himself the benefit of his own approval; and, on the whole, was rather proud of his diplomacy.  He had revealed enough, and not too much; he had given the headstrong Englishman prudent warnings and judicious counsel; he had done what he could for the future of the little Natalushka, who was the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi.  But there was something more.

He went up-stairs.

“My dear little one,” he said, in his queer French, “behold me—­I come alone.  Your English friend sends a thousand apologies—­he has to return to his guests:  is it an English custom to leave guests in such a manner?  Ah, Madame Potecki, there is a time in one’s life when one does strange things, is there not?  When a farewell before strangers is hateful—­impossible; when you rather go away silently than come before strangers and shake hands, and all the rest.  What, wicked little one, you look alarmed!  Is it a secret, then?  Does not madame guess anything?”