Brand began to think a little better of Reitzei, whom hitherto he had rather disliked.  He handed him five pounds, to get some clothes and tools for the man, who, when he was told of this generosity, turned to Brand and said something to him in Russian which set Reitzei laughing.

“What is it he says?”

“He said, ’Little Father, you are worthy to become the husband of the angel:  may the day come soon!’ I suppose the angel is Miss Lind; she must have been very kind to the man.”

“She only spoke to him; but her voice can be kind,” said Brand, rather absently, and then he left.

Away went the hansom back to Curzon Street.  He said to himself that it was not for nothing that this unfortunate wretch Kirski had wandered all the way from the Dnieper to the Thames.  He would look after this man.  He would do something for him.  Five pounds only?  And he had been the means of securing this interview, if only for three of four minutes; after the long period of labor and hope and waiting he might have gone without a word at all but for this over-troubled poor devil.

And now—­now he might even see her alone for a couple of minutes in the hushed little drawing-room; and she might say if she had heard about what had been done in the North, and about his eagerness to return to the work.  One look of thanks; that was enough.  Sometimes, by himself up there in the solitary inns, the old fit had come over him; and he had laughed at himself, and wondered at this new fire of occupation and interest that was blazing through his life, and asked himself, as of old, to what end—­to what end?  But when he heard Natalie Lind’s voice, there was a quick good-bye to all questioning.  One look at the calm, earnest eyes, and he drank deep of faith, courage, devotion.  And surely this story of the man Kirski—­what he could tell her of it—­would be sufficient to fill up five minutes, eight minutes, ten minute, while all the time he should be able to dwell on her eyes, whether they were downcast, or turned to his with their frank, soft glance.  He should be in the perfume of the small drawing-room.  He would see the Roman necklace Mazzini had given her gleam on her bosom as she breathed.

He did not know what Natalie Lind had been about during his absence.

“Anneli, Anneli—­hither, child!” she called in German.  “Run up to Madame Potecki, and ask her to come and spend the afternoon with me.  She must come at once, to lunch with me; I will wait.”

“Yes, Fraulein.  What music, Fraulein?”

“None; never mind any music.  But she must come at once.”

“Schon, Fraulein,” said the little Anneli, about to depart.

Her young mistress called her back, and paused, with a little hesitation.

“You may tell Elizabeth,” said she, with an indifferent air, “that it is possible—­it is quite possible—­it is at least possible—­I may have two friends to lunch with me; and she must send at once if she wants anything more.  And you could bring me back some fresh flowers, Anneli?”