“But half an hour, give me half an hour,” she said, and she glanced round the room.  “It is so poor a chamber.”

“She will not think of the chamber.”

“And the little girl with her—­she will remain down-stairs, will she not?  I wish to be alone, quite alone, with my child.”  Her breath came and went quickly, and she clasped her fingers tight.  “Oh, monsieur, my heart will break if my child is cold to me!”

“That is the last thing you have to fear,” said he, and he rose.  “Now calm yourself, madame.  Recollect, you must not frighten your daughter.  And it will be more than half an hour before I bring her to you; it will take more than that for me to break it to her.”

She rose also; but she was obviously so excited that she did not know well what she was doing.  All her thoughts were about the forth-coming interview.

“You are sure she understands the Magyar?” she said again.

“No, I do not know.  But why not speak in French to her?”

“It does not sound the same—­it does not sound the same:  and a mother—­can only—­talk to her child—­”

“You must calm yourself, dear madame.  Do you know that your daughter believes you to have been a miracle of courage and self-reliance?  What Calabressa used to say to her was this:  ’Natalushka, when you are in trouble you will be brave; you will show yourself the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi.’”

“Yes, yes,” she said, quickly, as she again dried her eyes, and drew herself up.  “I beg you to pardon me.  I have thought so much of this meeting, through all these years, that my hearts beats too quickly now.  But I will have no fear.  She will come to me; I am not afraid:  she will not turn away from me.  And how am I to thank you for your great kindness?” she added, as he moved to the door.

“By being kind to Natalie when I am away in America,” said he.  “You will not find it a difficult task.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE VELVET GLOVE.

Ferdinand Lind sat alone, after Gathorne Edwards had gone, apparently deep buried in thought.  He leaned forward over his desk, his head resting on his left hand, while in his right hand he held a pencil, with which he was mechanically printing letters on a sheet of blotting-paper before him.  These letters, again and again repeated, formed but one phrase:  THE VELVET GLOVE.  It was as if he were perpetually reminding himself, during the turnings and twistings of his sombre speculations, of the necessity of being prudent and courteous and suave.  It was as if he were determined to imprint the caution on his brain—­drilling it into himself—­so that in no possible emergency could it be forgotten.  But as his thoughts went farther afield, he began to play with the letters, as a child might.  They began to assume decorations.  THE VELVET GLOVE appeared surrounded with stars; again furnished with duplicate lines; again breaking out into rays.  At length he rose, tore up the sheet of blotting-paper, and rung a hand-bell twice.