To Paul this ball was much like others.  There were a number of the friends of his youth—­tall, clean-featured, clean-limbed men, with a tendency toward length and spareness—­who greeted him almost affectionately.  Some of them introduced him to their wives and sisters, which ladies duly set him down as nice but dull—­a form of faint praise which failed to damn.  There were a number of ladies to whom it was necessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which had missed their mark.  From the gallery the washed-out female journalists poked out their eager faces—­for they were women still, and liked to look upon a man when he was strong.

And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English at the door, upbraiding hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting two literal facts literally.  The one fact was that they were forbidden to admit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets were not to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the two great motives of man—­Love or Money.

Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon of a great Order on his breast.  He mentioned the names of several ladies who might have been, but were not, of the committee.  Finally, however, he mentioned the historic name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russian emperor successfully for England.

“Yes, me lord, her ladyship’s here,” answered the man.

Steinmetz wrote on a card, “In memory of ’56, let me in,” and sent in the missive.

A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came toward him with outstretched hand.

“What mischief are you about?” she enquired, “you stormy petrel!  This is no place for your deep-laid machinations.  We are here to enjoy ourselves and found a hospital.  Come in, however.  I am delighted to see you.  You used to be a famous dancer—­well, some little time ago.”

“Yes, my dear countess, let us say some little time ago.  Ach, those were days! those were days!  You do not mind the liberty I have taken?”

“I am glad you took it.  But your card gave me a little tug at the heart.  It brought back so much.  And still plain Karl Steinmetz—­after all.  We used to think much of you in the old days.  Who would have thought that all the honors would have slipped past you?”

Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a heart-whole laugh.

“Ah, what matter?  Who cares, so long as my old friends remember me?  Who would have thought, my dear madam, that the map of Europe would have been painted the colors it is to-day?  It was a kaleidoscope—­the clatter of many stools, and I fell down between them all.  Still plain Karl Steinmetz—­still very much at your service.  Shall I send my check for five guineas to you?”

“Yes, do; I am secretary.  Always businesslike; a wonderful man you are still.”

“And you, my dear countess, a wonderful lady.  Always gay, always courageous.  I have heard and sympathized.  I have heard of many blows and wounds that you have received in the battle we began—­well, some little time ago.”