“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.