Madame Potecki and her companion led the way; but then Brand put his hand on the arm of Natalie and detained her.

“Natalie!” he said, in a low and hurried voice, “I am going away to-morrow.  I don’t know when I shall see you again.  Surely you will give me some assurance—­some promise, something I can repeat to myself.  Natalie, I know the value of what I am asking; you will give yourself to me?”

She stood by the half-shut door, pale, irresolute, and yet outwardly calm.  Her eyes were cast down; she held her fan firmly with both hands.

“Natalie, are you afraid to answer?”

Then the young Hungarian girl raised her eyes, and bravely regarded him, though her face was still pale and apprehensive.

“No,” she said, in a low voice.  “But how can I answer you more than this—­that if I am not to give myself to you I will give myself to no other?  I will be your wife, or the wife of no one.  Dear friend, I can say no more.”

“It is enough.”

She went quickly to the front of the box; in both bouquets there were forget-me-nots.  She hurriedly selected some, and returned and gave them to him.

“Whatever happens, you will remember that there was one who at least wished to be worthy of your love.”

Then they followed their friends into the saloon, and sat down at a small table, though Natalie’s hands were trembling so that she could scarcely undo her gloves.  And George Brand said nothing; but once or twice he looked into his wife’s eyes.

CHAPTER XXI.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

When Ferdinand Lind told Calabressa that Natalie had grown to be a woman, he no doubt meant what he said; but he himself had not the least notion what the phrase implied.  He could see, of course, that she had now a woman’s years, stature, self-possession; but, for all that, she was still to him only a child—­only the dark-eyed, gentle, obedient little Natalushka, who used to be so proud when she was praised for her music, and whose only show of resolution was when she set to work on the grammar of a new language.  Indeed, it is the commonest thing in the world for a son, or a daughter, or a friend to grow in years without those nearest them being aware of the fact, until some chance circumstance, some crisis, causes a revelation, and we are astounded at the change that time has insidiously made.

Such a discovery was now about to confront Ferdinand Lind.  He was to learn not only that his daughter had left the days of her childhood behind her, but also that the womanhood to which she had attained was of a fine and firm character, a womanhood that rung true when tried.  And this is how the discovery was forced on him: 

On his arrival in London, Mr. Lind drove first to Lisle Street, to pick up letters on his way home.  Beratinsky had little news about business matters to impart; but, instead, he began—­as Lind was looking at some of the envelopes—­to drop hints about Brand.  It was easy to see now, he said, why the rich Englishman was so eager to join them, and give up his life in that way.  It was not for nothing.  Mr. Lind would doubtless hear more at home; and so forth.