“I have been asked to go and stay at Osterno,” she said.  “Shall I go?”

“By whom?”

“By Paul.”

“Then go,” said Steinmetz, making one of the few mistakes of his life.

“You think so—­you want me to go?”

“Ach! you must not put it like that.  How well you dance—­colossal!  But it does not affect me—­your going, frauelein.”

“Since you will be there?”

“Does that make a difference, my dear young lady?”

“Of course it does.”

“I wonder why.”

“So do I,” answered Maggie frankly.  “I wonder why.  I have been wondering why, ever since Paul asked me.  If you had not been going I should have said ‘No’ at once.”

Karl Steinmetz laughed quietly.

“What do I represent?” he asked.

“Safety,” she replied at once.

She gave a queer little laugh and went on dancing.

“And Paul?” he said, after a little while.

“Strength,” replied Maggie promptly.

He looked down at her—­a momentary glance of wonder.  He was like a woman, inasmuch as he judged a person by a flicker of the eyelids—­a glance, a silence—­in preference to judging by the spoken word.

“Then with us both to take care of you, may we hope that you will brave the perils of Osterno?  Ah—­the music is stopping.”

“If I may assure my mother that there are no perils.”

Something took place beneath the gray mustache—­a smile or a pursing up of the lips in doubt.

“Ah, I cannot go so far as that.  You may assure Lady Delafield that I will protect you as I would my own daughter.  If—­well, if the good God in heaven had not had other uses for me I should have had a daughter of your age.  Ach! the music has stopped.  The music always does stop, Miss Delafield; that is the worst of it.  Thank you for dancing with an old buffer.”

He took her back to her chaperon, bowed in his old-world way to both ladies, and left them.

“If I can help it, my very dear young friend,” he said to himself as he crossed the room, looking for Paul, “you will not go to Osterno.”

He found Paul talking to two men.

“You here!” said Paul, in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Steinmetz, shaking hands.  “I gave Lady Fontain five guineas to let me in, and now I want a couple of chairs and a quiet corner, if the money includes such.”

“Come up into the gallery,” replied Paul.

A certain listlessness which had been his a moment before vanished when Paul recognized his friend.  He led the way up the narrow stairs.  In the gallery they found a few people—­couples seeking, like themselves, a rare solitude.

“What news?” asked Paul, sitting down.

“Bad!” replied Steinmetz.  “We have had the misfortune to make a dangerous enemy—­Claude de Chauxville.”

“Claude de Chauxville,” repeated Paul.

“Yes.  He wanted to marry your wife—­for her money.”