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?"
"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 imagin
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