seen from the dark had been a mere illusion. A
review in _The Times_ of a book of Polish memoirs served to let loose a
flood of boastful talk, which jarred abominably on the Englishman. Under
the Oxford code, to boast in plain language of your ancestors, or your
own performances, meant simply that you were an outsider, not sure of
your footing. If a man really had ancestors, or more brains than other
people, his neighbours saved him the trouble of talking about them. Only
the fools and the _parvenus_ trumpeted themselves; a process in any case
not worth while, since it defeated its own ends. You might of course be
as insolent or arrogant as you pleased; but only an idiot tried to
explain why.

In Otto, however, there was the characteristic Slav mingling of quick
wits with streaks of childish vanity. He wanted passionately to make
this tough Englishman feel what a great country Poland had been and
would be again; what great people his ancestors had been; and what a
leading part they had played in the national movements. And the more he
hit against an answering stubbornness--or coolness--in Falloden, the
more he held forth. So that it was an uncomfortable dinner. And again
Falloden said to himself--"Why did I do it? I am only in his way. I
shall bore and chill him; and I don't seem to be able to help it."

But after dinner, as the night frost grew sharper, and as Otto sat over
the fire, piling on the coal, Falloden suddenly went and fetched a warm
Scotch plaid of his own. When he offered it, Radowitz received it with
surprise, and a little annoyance.

"I am not the least cold--thank you!"

But, presently, he had wrapped it round his knees; and some restraint
had broken down in Falloden.

"Isn't there a splendid church in Cracow?" he asked casually, stretching
himself, with his pipe, in a long chair on the opposite side of
the fire.

"One!--five or six!" cried Otto indignantly. "But I expect you're
thinking of Panna Marya. Panna means Lady. I tell you, you English
haven't got anything to touch it!"

"What's it like?--what date?" said Falloden, laughing.

"I don't know--I don't know anything about architecture. But it's
glorious. It's all colour and stained glass--and magnificent tombs--like
the gate of heaven," said the boy with ardour. "It's the church that
every Pole loves. Some of my ancestors are buried there. And it's the
church where, instead of a clock striking, the hours are given out by a
watchman who p