“Why not, Fraulein?”

“Go quick, then, Anneli—­fly like a roe—­durch Wald und auf der Haide!”

And so it came about that when George Brand was ushered into the scented little drawing-room—­so anxious to make the most of the invaluable minutes—­he found himself introduced first of all to Madame Potecki, a voluble, energetic little Polish gentlewoman, whose husband had been killed in the Warsaw disturbances of ’61, and who now supported herself in London by teaching music.  She was eager to know all about the man Kirski, and hoped that he was not wholly a maniac, and trusted that Mr. Brand would see that her dear child—­her adopted daughter, she might say—­was not terrified again by the madman.

“My dear madame,” said Brand, “you must not imagine that it was from terror that Miss Lind handed over the man to me—­it was from kindness.  That is more natural to her than terror.”

“Ah, I know the dear child has the courage of an army,” said the little old lady, tapping her adopted daughter on the shoulder with the fan.  “But she must take care of herself while her papa is away in America.”

Natalie rose; and of course Brand rose also, with a sudden qualm of disappointment, for he took that as the signal of his dismissal; and he had scarcely spoken a word to her.

“Mr. Brand,” said she, with some little trifle of embarrassment, “I know I must have deprived you of your luncheon.  It was so kind of you to go at once with the poor man.  Would it save you time—­if you are not going anywhere—­I thought perhaps you might come and have something with madame and myself.  You must be dying of hunger.”

He did not refuse the invitation.  And behold! when he went down-stairs, the table was already laid for three; had he been expected, he asked himself?  Those flowers there, too:  he knew it was no maid-servant’s fingers that had arranged and distributed them so skilfully.

How he blessed this little Polish lady, and her volubility, and her extravagant, subtle, honest flattery of her dear adopted daughter!  It gave him liberty to steep himself in the rich consciousness of Natalie’s presence; he could listen in silence for the sound of her voice—­he could covertly watch the beauty of her shapely hands—­without being considered preoccupied or morose.  All he had to do was to say, “Yes, madame,” or “Indeed, madame,” the while he knew that Natalie Lind was breathing the same air with him—­that at any moment the large, lustrous dark eyes might look up and meet his.  And she spoke little, too; and had scarcely her usual frank self-confidence:  perhaps a chance reference of Madame Potecki to the fact that her adopted daughter had been brought up without a mother had somewhat saddened her.

The room was shaded in a measure, for the French silk blinds were down; but there was a soft golden glow prevailing all the same.  For many a day George Brand remembered that little luncheon-party; the dull, bronze glow of the room; the flowers; the soft, downcast eyes opposite him; the bright, pleasant garrulity of the little Polish lady; and always—­ah, the delight of it!—­that strange, trembling, sweet consciousness that Natalie Lind was listening as he listened—­that almost he could have heard the beating of her heart.