“What! the Kossuth of the Balkans—the Thracian premier?” asked Usk, much interested.
“Yes, the great history-maker of to-day. It is a liberal education (pray don’t think I intend a pun) to hear him talk. Come and I will take you to him.”
She did not lead him into the crowded drawing-room, full of light and laughter, but into a smaller room near at hand, where a solitary gentleman in evening dress was dimly visible by the rays of a Moorish lamp hanging in a window-recess. He was a small shrunken man, with a large bald head and a massive brow; and as Usk’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he saw in the bronzed face and heavy grey moustache the hint of a likeness to another and a more successful statesman than the Hungarian patriot, a likeness which was, moreover, not altogether distasteful to M. Drakovics himself.
“Lord Usk—M. Drakovics,” said Mrs Sadleir, briskly. “Now I am going to leave you to have a good talk, for I want you to know one another. If you will sit here in the recess, the curtains will hide you, and you will not be seized upon by any troublesome acquaintances.”
“Milord,” said M. Drakovics, bowing formally, but scanning Usk from head to foot in a way which made the younger man feel that he was being reckoned up and his measure taken, “I am much honoured in meeting you. Your name, and your father’s name also, are very well known to us in Thracia.”
“You are very kind,” said Usk, in the embarrassed way in which the average Englishman receives a compliment. “I’m sure I am delighted to have the chance of meeting you here. I never expected to be able to hear about the Thracian revolution from one who was in it.”
“From one who may be said to have been at the head of it,” corrected M. Drakovics, gravely. “You are interested in Eastern Europe, milord?”
“Naturally, since no one who takes any interest whatever in international politics can well avoid keeping his eye on the Balkan States,” said Usk; “and Thracia has always seemed to me the most promising of them all, if only she got a chance. Your long struggle against Roum, and the way in which you won your freedom, have shown what your people are made of.”
“Yes, indeed,” responded M. Drakovics, his eyes lighting up, “Thracia is the nation of the future in Eastern Europe. We are the only truly European race south of the Carpathians. The Mœsians are Slavs, the Dardanians half Roumis. Our blood is chiefly Latin, with a large Teutonic admixture. Our very language is far more nearly akin to the Italian than to the Slavonic.”
“And yet your own name is Slavonic?” suggested Usk.