She followed the waiter up-stairs with that soft rustle of the dress which conveys even in the obtuse masculine mind a care for clothes and the habit of dealing with a good dressmaker. At the head of the stairs she gave a little cry of surprise, for Paul Deulin was coming along the broad corridor towards her, swinging the key of his bedroom and nonchalantly humming an air from a recent comic opera. He was, it appeared, as much at home here as in London or Paris or New York. “Ah, mademoiselle!” he said, standing hat in hand before her, “who could have dreamed of such a pleasure--here and at this moment--in this sad town?” “You seemed gay enough--you were singing,” answered Miss Cahere. “It was a sad little air, mademoiselle, and I was singing flat. Perhaps you noticed it?” “No, I never know when people are singing flat or not. I have no ear for music. I only know when I like to hear a person's voice. I have no accomplishments, you know,” said Netty, with a little humble drawing-in of the shoulders. “Ah!” said Deulin, with a gesture which conveyed quite clearly his opinion that she had need of none. And he turned to greet Miss Mangles and her brother. Miss Mangles received him coldly. Even the greatest of women is liable to feminine moments, and may know when she is not looking her best. She shook hands, with her platform bow--from the waist--and passed on. “Hallo!” said Joseph Mangles. “Got here before us? Thought you'd turn up. Dismal place, eh?” “You have just arrived, I suppose?” said Deulin. “Oh, please don't laugh at us!” broke in Netty. “Of course you can see that. You must know that we have just come out of a sleeping-car!” “You always look, mademoiselle, as if you had come straight from heaven,” answered Deulin, looking at Miss Cahere, whose hand was at her hair. It was pretty hair and a pretty, slim, American hand. But she did not seem to hear, for she had turned away quickly and was speaking to her uncle. Deulin accompanied them along the corridor, which is a long one, for the Hotel de l'Europe is a huge quadrangle. “You startled me by your sudden appearance, you know,” she said, turning again to the Frenchman, which was probably intended for an explanation of her heightened color. She was one of those fortunate persons who blush easily--at the right time. “I am sure Uncle Joseph will be pleased to have you in the same hotel. Of course, we know no one in Warsaw. Have you friends here?” “Only one,” replied Deulin--“the waiter who serves the Zakuska counter down-stairs. I knew him when he was an Austrian nobleman, travelling for his health in France. He does not recognize me now.” “Will you stay long?” “I did not intend to,” replied Deulin, “when I came out of my room this morning.” “But you and Mr. Cartoner have Polish friends, have you not?” asked Netty. “Not in Warsaw,” was the reply.