“For you,” she said quickly, “but not for me. My world is Warsaw. You forget I am a Russian subject.” But he had not forgotten it, as she could see by the sudden hardening of his face. “My presence in Warsaw,” he said, as if the train of thought needed no elucidating, “is in reality no source of danger to you--to your father and brother, I mean. Indeed, I might be of some use. I or Deulin. Do not misunderstand my position. I am of no political importance. I am nobody--nothing but a sort of machine that has to report upon events that are past. It is not my business to prevent events or to make history. I merely record. If I choose to be prepared for that which may come to pass, that is merely my method of preparing my report. If nothing happens I report nothing. I have not to say what might have happened--life is too short to record that. So you see my being in Warsaw is really of no danger to your father and brother.” “Yes, I see--I see!” answered Wanda. She had only three minutes now. The door giving access to the platform had long been thrown open. The guard, in his fine military uniform and shining top-boots, was strutting the length of the train. “But it was not on account of that that we asked Monsieur Deulin to warn you. It does not matter about my father and Martin. It is required of them--a sort of family tradition. It is their business in life--almost their pleasure.” “It is my business in life--almost my pleasure,” said Cartoner, with a smile. “But is there no one at home--in England--that you ought to think of?” in an odd, sharp voice. “Nobody,” he replied, in one word, for he was chary with information respecting himself. Wanda had walked towards the platform. Immediately opposite to her stood a carriage with the door thrown open. In those days there were no corridor carriages. Two minutes now. “We must not be seen together on the platform,” she said. “I am only going to the next station. We have a small farm there, and some old servants whom I go to see.” She stood within the open doorway, and seemed to wait for him to speak. “Thank you,” he said, “for warning me.” And that was all. “You must go,” he added, after a moment's pause. Still she lingered. “There is so much to say,” she said, half to herself. “There is so much to say.” The train was moving when Cartoner stepped into a carriage at the back. He was alone, and he leaned back with a look of thoughtful wonder in his eyes, as if he were questioning whether she were right--whether there was much to say--or nothing. XVII IN THE SENATORSKA “It is,” said Miss Julie Mangles, “in the Franciszkanska that one lays one's hand on the true heart of the people.” “That's as may be, Jooly,” replied her brother, “but I take it that the hearts of the women go to the Senatorska.”