"Come," cried Paul Deulin, breaking in on the solitude of Cartoner's
rooms after lunch one day towards the end of October. "Come, and let
us bury the hatchet, and smoke the cigarette of peace before the
grand-stand at the Mokotow. Everybody will be there. All Poland and his
wife, all the authorities and their wives, and these ladies will peep
sideways at each other, and turn up their noses at each other's toilets.
To such has descended the great strife in eastern Europe."

"You think so."

"Yes, I think so, or I pretend to think so, which comes to the same
thing, and makes it a more amusing world for those who have no stake in
it. Come with me, and I will show you this little world of Warsaw, where
the Russians walk on one side and the Poles pass by on the other; where
these fine Russian officers glance longingly across the way, only too
ready to take their hearts there and lose them--but the Czar forbids it.
And, let me tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than
a pair of Polish eyes."

He broke off suddenly; for Cartoner was looking at him with a
speculative glance, and turned away to the window.

"Come," he said. "It is a fine day--St. Martin's summer. It is Sunday,
but no matter. All you Englishmen think that there is no recording angel
on the Continent. You leave him behind at Dover."

"Oh, I have no principles," said Cartoner, rising from his chair, and
looking round absent-mindedly for his hat.

"You would be no friend of mine if you had. There is no moderation in