“When Jane and I went courtin’,
       Oh, the days were long,
       And the summers were long! 
       We walked by night beyond the quay;
       Above, the stars; below, the sea;
       And I kissed Jane, and Jane kissed me,
     When Jane and I went courtin’.

    “But Jane she married the sodger-chap;
       An end to me and my courtin’. 
       And I took ship, and here I am;
       And where I go, I care not a damn—­
       Rio, Jamaica, Seringapatam—­
     Good-bye to Jane and the courtin’.”

This second professor of gravity was abundantly cheered too when he rose from the piano; for the music was quaint and original with a sort of unholy, grotesque pathos running through it.  Calabressa resumed: 

“My good Beratinsky, what is it that you have heard?”

“No matter.  Natalie Lind has no need of your good offices, Calabressa.  She can make friends for herself, and quickly enough, too.”

Calabressa’s eyes were not keen, but his ears were; he detected easily the personal rancor in the man’s tone.

“You are speaking of some one:  the Englishman?”

Beratinsky burst out laughing.

“Listen, Reitzei!  Even my good friend Calabressa perceives.  He, too, has encountered the Englishman.  Oh yes, we must all give way to him, else he will stamp on our toes with his thick English boots.  You, Reitzei:  how long is he to allow you to retain your office?”

“Better for him if he does not interfere with me,” said the younger man.  “I was always against the English being allowed to become officers.  They are too arrogant; they want everything under their direction.  Take their money, but keep them outside:  that would have been my rule.”

“And this Englishman,” said Beratinsky, with a smile, though there was the light of malice in his eye, “this Englishman is not content with wanting to have the mastery of poor devils like you and me; he also wishes to marry the beautiful Natalie—­the beautiful Natalie, who has hitherto been as proud as the Princess Brunhilda.  Now, now, friend Calabressa, do not protest.  Every one has ears, has eyes.  And when papa Lind comes home—­when he finds that this Englishman has been making a fool of him, and professing great zeal when he was only trying to steal away the daughter—­what then, friend Calabressa?”

“A girl must marry,” said Calabressa.

“I thought she was too proud to think of such things,” said the other, scornfully.  “However, I entreat you to say no more.  What concern have I with Natalie Lind?  I tell you, let her make more new friends.”

Calabressa sat silent, his heart as heavy as lead.  He had come with some notion that he would secure one other—­powerful, and in all of Lind’s secrets—­on whom Natalie could rely, should any emergency occur in which she needed help.  But these jealous and envious taunts, these malignant prophecies, only too clearly showed him in what relation Vincent Beratinsky stood with regard to the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi and the Englishman, her lover.