The door was thrown open, and Claude de Chauxville walked into the room with the easy grace which was his.

“Mme. la Comtesse,” he said, bowing over her hand.

Then he stood upright, and the two men smiled grimly at each other.  Steinmetz had thought that De Chauxville was in London.  The Frenchman counted on the other’s duties to retain him in Osterno.

“Pleasure!” said De Chauxville, shaking hands.

“It is mine,” answered Steinmetz.

The countess looked from one to the other with a smile on her foolish face.

“Ah!” she exclaimed; “how pleasant it is to meet old friends!  It is like by-gone times.”

At this moment the door opened again and Catrina came in.  In her rich furs she looked almost pretty.

She shook hands eagerly with Steinmetz; her deep eyes searched his face with a singular, breathless scrutiny.

“Where are you from?” she asked quickly.

“London.”

“Catrina,” broke in the countess, “you do not remember M. de Chauxville!  He nursed you when you were a child.”

Catrina turned and bowed to De Chauxville.

“I should have remembered you,” he said, “if we had met accidentally.  After all, childhood is but a miniature—­is it not so?”

“Perhaps,” answered Catrina; “and when the miniature develops it loses the delicacy which was its chief charm.”

She turned again to Steinmetz, as if desirous of continuing her conversation with him.

“M. de Chauxville, you surely have news?” broke in the countess’s cackling voice.  “I have begged M. Steinmetz in vain.  He says he has none; but is one to believe so notorious a bad character?”

“Madame, it is wise to believe only that which is convenient.  But Steinmetz, I promise you, is the soul of honor.  What sort of news do you crave for?  Political, which is dangerous; social, which is scandalous; or court news, which is invariably false?”

“Let us have scandal, then.”

“Ah!  I must refer you to the soul of honor.”

“Who,” answered Steinmetz, “in that official capacity is necessarily deaf, and in a private capacity is naturally dull.”

He was looking very hard at De Chauxville, as if he was attempting to make him understand something which he could not say aloud.  De Chauxville, from carelessness or natural perversity, chose to ignore the persistent eyes.

“Surely the news is from London,” he said lightly; “we have nothing from Paris.”

He glanced at Steinmetz, who was frowning.

“I can hardly tell you stale news that comes from London via Paris, can I?” he continued.

Steinmetz was tapping impatiently on the floor with his broad boot.

“About whom—­about whom?” cried the countess, clapping her soft hands together.

“Well, about Prince Paul,” said De Chauxville, looking at Steinmetz with airy defiance.