Mr. Lind pretended to converse with his guests as before; and tea came in; but presently he begged to be excused for a moment, and left the room.  George Brand rose, and took a turn or two up and down.

“It would take very little,” he muttered—­for his teeth were set—­“to make me throw that fellow out of the window!”

“What do you mean?” Lord Evelyn said, in great surprise.

“Didn’t you see?  She left the room to keep from crying.  That miserable Polish cutthroat—­I should like to kick him down-stairs!”

But at this moment the door opened, and father and daughter entered, arm-in-arm.  Natalie’s face was a little bit flushed, but she was very gentle and affectionate; they had made up that brief misunderstanding, obviously.  And she had brought in her hand a mob-cap of black satin:  would Lord Evelyn allow her to try the effect of twisting those beautiful golden threads through it?

“Natalushka,” said her father, with great good-humor, “it is your birthday.  Do you think you could persuade Lord Evelyn and Mr. Brand to come to your dinner-party?”

It was then explained to the two gentlemen that on this great anniversary it was the custom of Mr. Lind, when in London, to take his daughter to dine at some French or Italian restaurant in Regent Street or thereabouts.  In fact, she liked to play at being abroad for an hour or two; to see around her foreign faces, and hear foreign tongues.

“I am afraid you will say that it is very easy to remind yourself of the Continent,” said Mr. Lind, smiling—­“that you have only to go to a place where they give you oily food and bad wine.”

“On the contrary,” said Brand, “I should thing it very difficult in London to imagine yourself in a foreign town; for London is drained.  However, I accept the invitation with pleasure.”

“And I,” said Lord Evelyn.  “Now, must we be off to dress?”

“Not at all,” said Natalie.  “Do you not understand that you are abroad, and walking into a restaurant to dine?  And now I will play you a little invitation—­not to dinner; for you must suppose you have dined—­and you come out on the stairs of the hotel, and step into the black gondola.”

She went along to the small table, and sat down to the zither.  There were a few notes of prelude; and then they heard the beautiful low voice added to the soft tinkling sounds.  What did they vaguely make out from that melodious murmur of Italian?

     Behold the beautiful night—­the wind sleeps drowsily—­the silent
     shores slumber in the dark: 

    “Sul placido elemento
     Vien meco a navigar!”

     The soft wind moves—­as it stirs among the leaves—­it moves and
     dies—­among the murmur of the water: 

    “Lascia l’amico tetto
     Vien meco a navigar!”

     Now on the spacious mantle—­of the already darkening heavens—­see,
     oh, the shining wonder—­how the white stars tremble: