“You mean,” said Deulin, “the domestic felicities. Your fine and sympathetic heart would naturally think of that. You go about the world like an unemployed and wandering angel, seeking to make the lives of others happier. Those are dreams, and in Poland dreams are forbidden--by the Czar. But they are the privilege of youth, and I like to catch an occasional glimpse of your gentle dreams, my dear young lady.” Netty smiled a little pathetically, and glanced up at him beneath her lashes, which were dark as lashes should be that veil violet eyes. “Now you are laughing at me, because I am not clever,” she said. “Heaven forbid! But I am laughing at your dream for Martin Bukaty. He will never come to what you suggest as the cure for his unsatisfactory life. He has too much history behind him, which is a state of things never quite understood in your country, mademoiselle. Moreover, he has not got it in him. He is not stable enough for the domestic felicities, and Siberia--his certain destination--is not a good mise-en-scene for your dream. No, you must not hope to do good to your fellow-beings here, though it is natural that you should seek the ever-evasive remedy--another privilege of youth.” “You talk as if you were so very old,” said Netty, reproachfully. “I am very, very old,” he replied, with a laugh. “And there is no remedy for that. Even your kind heart can supply no cure for old age.” “I reserve my charity and my cures for really deserving cases,” answered Netty, lightly. “I think you are quite capable of taking care of yourself.” “And of evolving my own dreams?” he inquired. But she made no answer, and did not appear to notice the glance of his tired, dark eyes. “I know so little,” she said, after a pause, “so very little of Poland or Polish history. I suppose you know everything--you and Mr. Cartoner?” “Oh, Cartoner! Yes, he knows a great deal. He is a regular magazine of knowledge, while I--I am only a little stall in Vanity Fair, with everything displayed to the best advantage in the sunshine. Now, there is a life for you to exercise your charity upon. He is brilliantly successful, and yet there is something wanting in his life. Can you not prescribe for him?” Netty smiled gravely. “I hardly know him sufficiently well,” she said. “Besides, he requires no sympathy if it is true that he is the heir to a baronetcy and a fortune.” Deulin's eyebrows went up into his hat, and he made, for his own satisfaction, a little grimace of surprise. “Ah! is that so?” he inquired. “Who told you that?” But Netty could not remember where she had heard what she was ready to believe was a mere piece of gossip. Neither did she appear to be very interested in the matter. XVIII JOSEPH'S STORY