“In Warsaw you can do as you like. We are not French, and Heaven forbid that we should resemble the Germans in anything. Here every one goes about the streets as they do in England or America.”
As if to confirm this, he walked on slowly, and she walked by his side.
“I can show you the best shops,” he said, “such as they are. This is Ulrich's, the flower shop. Those violets are Russian. The only good thing I ever heard of that came from Russia. Do you like violets?”
“I love them,” answered Netty, and she walked on rather hurriedly to the next shop.
“You would naturally.”
“Why?” asked Netty, looking with a curious interest at the packets of tea in the Russian shop next to Ulrich's.
“Is it not the correct thing to select the flower that matches the eyes?”
“It is very kind of you to say that,” said Netty, in a voice half-afraid, half-reproachful.
“It is very kind of Heaven to give you such eyes,” answered Martin, gayly. He was more and more surprised to find how easy it was to get on with Netty, whom he seemed to have known all his life. Like many lively persons, he rather liked a companion to possess a vein of gravity, and this Netty seemed to have. He was sure that she was religious and very good.
“You know,” said Netty, hastily, and ignoring his remark, “I am much interested in Poland. It is such a romantic country. People have done such great things, have they not, in Poland? I mean the nobles—and the poor peasants, too in their small way, I suppose?”