De Chauxville waved aside the small contretemps with easy nonchalance.

“Not necessarily,” he said, in cold, even tones.  “Mrs. Sydney Bamborough does not habitually take into her confidence all who happen to dine at the same table as herself.  Your confidential woman is usually a liar.”

Steinmetz was filling his pipe; this man had the evil habit of smoking a wooden pipe after a cigar.

“My very dear De Chauxville,” he said, without lookup, “your epigrams are lost on me.  I know most of them.  I have heard them before.  If you have anything to tell me about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, for Heaven’s sake tell it to me quite plainly.  I like plain dishes and unvarnished stories.  I am a German, you know; that is to say, a person with a dull palate and a thick head.”

De Chauxville laughed again in an unemotional way.

“You alter little,” he said.  “Your plainness of speech takes me back to Petersburg.  Yes, I admit that Mrs. Sydney Bamborough rather interested me.  But I assume too much; that is no reason why she should interest you.”

“She does not, my good friend, but you do.  I am all attention.”

“Do you know anything of her?” asked De Chauxville perfunctorily, not as a man who expects an answer or intends to believe that which he may be about to hear.

“Nothing.”

“You are likely to know more?”

Karl Steinmetz shrugged his heavy shoulders, and shook his head doubtfully.

“I am not a lady’s man,” he added gruffly; “the good God has not shaped me that way.  I am too d—­d fat.  Has Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen in love with me?  Has some imprudent person shown her my photograph?  I hope not.  Heaven forbid!”

He puffed steadily at his pipe, and glanced quickly at De Chauxville through the smoke.

“No,” answered the Frenchman quite gravely.  Frenchmen, by the way, do not admit that one may be too middle-aged, or too stout, for love.  “But she is au mieux with the prince.”

“Which prince?”

“Pavlo.”

The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the other’s benevolent countenance.  Steinmetz continued to smoke placidly and contentedly.

“My master,” he said at length.  “I suppose that some day he will marry.”

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders.  He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the servant appeared, ordered coffee.  He selected a cigarette from a silver case with considerable care, and having lighted it smoked for some moments in silence.  The servant brought the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully.  Steinmetz was leaning back in his deep chair, with his legs crossed.  He was gazing into the fire, which burnt brightly, although it was nearly May.  The habits of the Talleyrand Club are almost continental.  The rooms are always too warm.  The silence was that of two men knowing each other well.

“And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough?” asked Steinmetz suddenly.