"
Sanchia followed the leading of his eyes. She saw a tall and slim young
man, inordinately thin, slightly bald, with a moustache like a rake, and
heavy-browed, mournful eyes, pushing his way slowly upstairs. Without
effort, his hands behind his back, working from the shoulders, he made
room for himself, but so quietly that nobody seemed to observe how
aggressively he was at it. Occasionally some ousted dowager turned redly
upon him, or it might be some pushing gentleman smothered an oath as he
faced the attack. But Morosine's mournful eyes gazed calmly their fill,
seemed to be communing beyond the surging guests, beyond the wall, with
the eternal stars, and, without faltering, the narrow frame glided forward
into the space which indignation had cleared. Sanchia, above him, and out
of the game, was highly amused.
"He's very selfish, your friend. He takes care of himself; but no one
seems to know it."
Chevenix chuckled. "That's the beauty of Alexis. But, as he asks, whom
else should he take care of? It's not queer if the Poles have learned that
lesson."
"Oh," said Sanchia. "Is he a Pole?" Jack Senhouse had been in Poland.
"Half of him is hungry Pole. The other part is bad Italian--pampered
Italian, fed for generations on oil and polenta.
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