And he bowed, bareheaded, in response to a gay wave of the hand from Wanda as the carriage turned the corner and disappeared. He turned on his heel, to find himself cut off from the grand-stand by a dense throng of people moving rather confusedly towards the exit. The sky was black, and a shower was impending. “Ah, well!” he muttered, philosophically, “they are capable of taking care of themselves.” And he joined the throng making for the gates. It appeared, however, that he gave more credit than was merited; for Netty was carried along by a stream of people whose aim was a gate to the left of the great gate, and though she saw the hat of her uncle above the hats of the other men, she could not make her way towards it. Mr. Mangles and his sister passed out of the large gateway, and waited in the first available space beyond it. Netty was carried by the gentle pressure of the crowd to the smaller gate, and having passed it, decided to wait till her uncle, who undoubtedly must have seen her, should come in search of her. She was not uneasy. All through her life she had always found people, especially men, ready, nay, anxious, to be kind to her. She was looking round for Mr. Mangles when a man came towards her. He was only a workman in his best suit of working clothes. He had a narrow, sunburned face, and there was in his whole being a not unpleasant suggestion of the seafaring life. “I am afraid,” he said, in perfect English, as he raised his cap, “that you have lost the rest of your party. You are also in the wrong course, so to speak. We are the commoner people here, you see. Can I help you to find your father?” “Thank you,” answered Netty, without concealing her surprise. “I think my uncle went out of the larger gate, and it seems impossible to get at him. Perhaps--” “Yes,” answered Kosmaroff, “I will show you another way with pleasure. Then that tall gentleman is not your father?” “No. Mr. Mangles is my uncle,” replied Netty, following her companion. “Ah, that is Mr. Mangles! An American, is he not?” “Yes. We are Americans.” “A diplomatist?” “Yes, my uncle is in the service.” “And you are at the Europe. Yes, I have heard of Mr. Mangles. This way; we can pass through this alley and come to the large gate.” “But you--you are not a Pole? It is so kind of you to help me,” said Netty, looking at him with some interest. And Kosmaroff, perceiving this interest, slightly changed his manner. “Ah! you are looking at my clothes,” he said, rather less formally. “In Poland things are not always what they seem, mademoiselle. Yes, I am a Pole. I am a boatman, and keep my boat at the foot of Bednarska Street, just above the bridge. If you ever want to go on the river, it is pleasant in the evening, you and your party, you will perhaps do me the great honor of selecting my poor boat, mademoiselle?” “Yes, I will remember,” answered Netty, who did not seem to notice that his glance was, as it were, less distant than his speech.