“No. Mr. Mangles is my uncle,” replied Netty, following her companion.
“Ah, that is Mr. Mangles! An American, is he not?”
“Yes. We are Americans.”
“A diplomatist?”
“Yes, my uncle is in the service.”
“And you are at the Europe. Yes, I have heard of Mr. Mangles. This way; we can pass through this alley and come to the large gate.”
“But you—you are not a Pole? It is so kind of you to help me,” said Netty, looking at him with some interest. And Kosmaroff, perceiving this interest, slightly changed his manner.
“Ah! you are looking at my clothes,” he said, rather less formally. “In Poland things are not always what they seem, mademoiselle. Yes, I am a Pole. I am a boatman, and keep my boat at the foot of Bednarska Street, just above the bridge. If you ever want to go on the river, it is pleasant in the evening, you and your party, you will perhaps do me the great honor of selecting my poor boat, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, I will remember,” answered Netty, who did not seem to notice that his glance was, as it were, less distant than his speech.
“I knew at once—at once,” he said, “that you were English or American.”