But she had not been standing there for a couple of seconds when she heard a well-known voice behind her.

“Natalie!”

She knew.  There was neither surprise nor shamefacedness in her look when she turned and saw George Brand before her.  Her eyes were as fearless as ever when they met his; and they were glad, too, with a sudden joy; and she said, quickly,

“Ah, I thought you would come.  I told Anneli.”

“It was kind of you—­and brave—­to let me come to see you.”

“Kind?” she said.  “How could I do otherwise?”

“But you are looking tired, Natalie.”

“I did not sleep much last night.  I was thinking.”

The tears started to her eyes; she impatiently brushed them aside.

“I know what you were thinking.  That is why I came so early to see you.  You were blaming yourself for what has happened.  That is not right.  You are not to blame at all.  Do you think I gave you that promise for nothing?”

“You were always like that,” she said in a low voice.  “Very generous and unselfish.  Yes, I—­I—­was miserable; I thought if you had never known me—­”

“If I had never known you!  You think that would be a desirable thing for me!—­”

But at this moment the hurried, anxious, half-whispered conversation had to cease, for Madame Potecki came up.  Nor was she surprised to find Mr. Brand there.  On the contrary, she said that her time was limited, and that she could not expect other people to care for old porcelain as much as she did; and if Mr. Brand would take her dear daughter Natalie to see some pictures in the rooms up-stairs, she would come and find her out by-and-by.

“Not at all, dear madame,” said Natalie, with some slight flush.  “No.  We will go with you to see the three wonderful vases.”

So they went, and saw the three crackle vases, and many another piece of porcelain and enamel and bronze; but always the clever little Polish woman took care that she should be at some other case, so that she could not overhear what these two had to say to each other.  And they had plenty to say.

“Why, Natalie, where is your courage?  What is the going to America?  It cannot be for ever and ever.”

“But even then,” she said, in a low, hesitating voice.  “If you were never to see me again, you would blame me for it all.  You would regret.”

“How can I regret that my life was made beautiful to me, if only for a time?  It was worth nothing to me before.  And you are forgetting all about the ring, and my promise to you.”

This light way of talking did not at all deceive her.  What had been torturing her all the night long was the fancy, the suspicion, that her father was sending her lover to America, not solely with a view to the work he should have to undertake there, but to insure a permanent separation between herself and him.  That was the cruel bit of it.  And she more than ever admired the manliness of this man, because he would make no complaint to her.  He had uttered no word of protest, for fear of wounding her.  He did not mention her father to her at all; but merely treated this project of going to America as if it were a part of his duty that had to be cheerfully accepted.