f his
voice even now--'Little child, you were not born then. But if you had
been able to go, do you know what they would have done to you? They
would have flogged you. Do you not know that the Austrians flog women?
When you grow up, little child, your papa will tell you the story of
Madame von Maderspach.'" Then she added, "That is one of my valued
recollections, that when I was a child I was carried on Kossuth's
shoulders."

"You have no similar reminiscence of Gorgey, I suppose?" Brand said,
with a smile.

He had spoken quite inadvertently, without the slightest thought in the
world of wounding her feelings. But he was surprised and shocked by the
extraordinary effect which this chance remark produced on the tall and
beautiful girl standing there; for an instant she paused, as if not
knowing what to say. Then she said proudly, and she turned away as she
did so,

"Perhaps you are not aware that there are some names you should not
mention in the presence of a Hungarian woman."

What was there in the tone of the voice that made him rapidly glance at
her eyes, as she turned away, pretending to carry back the photographs?
He was not deceived. Those large dark eyes were full of sudden,
indignant tears; she had not turned quite quickly enough to conceal
them.

Of course, he instantly and amply apologized for his ignorance and
stupidity; but what he said to himself was, "That child is not acting.
She may be Lind's daughter, after all. Poor thing! she is too beautiful,
and generous, and noble to be made the decoy of a revolutionary
adventurer."

At this moment Lord Evelyn arrived, throwing a quick glance of inquiry
toward his friend, to see what impression, so far, had been produced.
But the tall, red-bearded Englishman maintained, as the diplomatists
say, an attitude of the strictest reserve. The keen gray eyes were
respectful attentive, courteous--especially when they were turned to
Miss Lind; beyond that, nothing.

Now they had not been seated at the dinner-table more than a few minutes
before George Brand began to ask himself whether it was really Curzon
Street he was dining in. The oddly furnished room was adorned with
curiosities to which every capital in Europe would seem to have
contributed. The servants, exclusively women, were foreign; the table
glass and decorations were all foreign; the unostentatious little
banquet was distinctly foreign. Why, the very bell that had summoned
them down--what was there in