Karl Steinmetz looked at him and smiled openly, with the quaint air of resignation that was his.

“You have never seen her, eh?” enquired Paul.

Steinmetz paused, then he told a lie, a good one, well told, deliberately.

“No.”

“We are going to the opera, Box F2.  If you come in I shall have pleasure in introducing you.  The sooner you know each other the better.  I am sure you will approve.”

“I think you ought to marry money.”

“Why?”

Steinmetz laughed.

“Oh,” he answered, “because every-body does who can.  There is Catrina Lanovitch, an estate as big as yours, adjoining yours.  A great Russian family, a good girl who—­is willing.”

Paul laughed, a good wholesome laugh.

“You are inclined to exaggerate my manifold and obvious qualifications,” he said.  “Catrina is a very nice girl, but I do not think she would marry me even if I asked her.”

“Which you do not intend to do.”

“Certainly not.”

“Then you will make an enemy of her,” said Steinmetz quietly.  “It may be inconvenient, but that cannot be helped.  A woman scorned—­you know.  Shakspere or the Bible, I always mix them up.  No, Paul; Catrina Lanovitch is a dangerous enemy.  She has been making love to you these last four years, and you would have seen it if you had not been a fool!  I am afraid, my good Paul, you are a fool, God bless you for it!”

“I think you are wrong,” said Paul rather curtly; “not about me being a fool, but about Catrina Lanovitch.  If you are right, however, it only makes me dislike her instead of being perfectly indifferent to her.”

His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away to look at the clock again.

“I hate your way of talking about women, Steinmetz,” he said.  “You’re a cynical old beast, you know.”

“Heaven forbid, my dear prince!  I admire all women—­they are so clever, so innocent, so pure-minded.  Do not your English novels prove it, your English stage, your newspapers, so high-toned?  Who supports the novelist, the play-wright, the actor, who but your English ladies?”

“Better than being cooks—­like your German ladies,” retorted Paul stoutly.  “If you are German this evening.  Better than being cooks.”

“I doubt it!  I very much doubt it, my friend.  At what time shall I present myself at Box F2 this evening?”

“About nine—­as soon as you like.”

Paul looked at the clock.  The pointers lagged horribly.  He knew that the carriage was certain to be at the door, waiting in the quiet street with its great restless horses, its two perfectly trained men, its gleaming lamps and shining harness.  But he would not allow himself the luxury of being the first arrival.  Paul had himself well in hand.  At last it was time to go.

“See you later,” he said.

“Thank you—­yes,” replied Steinmetz, without looking up.