Vassili glanced at Steinmetz sideways.

“Here is dinner,” he said.  “Mme. la Princesse, may I have the honor?”

The table was gorgeously decorated; the wine was perfect; the dishes Parisian.  Every thing was brilliant, and Etta’s spirits rose.  Such little things affect the spirits of such little-minded women.  It requires a certain mental reserve from which to extract cheerfulness over a chop and a pint of beer withal, served on a doubtful cloth.  But some of us find it easy enough to be witty and brilliant over good wine and a perfectly appointed table.

“It is exile; it is nothing short of exile,” protested Vassili, who led the conversation.  “Much as I admire my own country, as a country, I do not pretend to regret a fate that keeps me resident in Paris.  For men it is different, but for madame, and for you, mademoiselle—­ach!” He shrugged his shoulders and looked up to the ceiling in mute appeal to the gods above it.  “Beauty, brilliancy, wit—­they are all lost in Russia.”

He bowed to the princess, who was looking, and to Maggie, who was not.

“What would Paris say if it knew what it was losing?” he added in a lower tone to Etta, who smiled, well pleased.  She was not always able to distinguish between impertinence and flattery.  And indeed they are so closely allied that the distinction is subtle.

Steinmetz, on the left hand of the marquise, addressed one or two remarks to that lady, who replied with her mouth full.  He soon discovered that that which was before her interested her more than any thing around, and during the banquet he contented himself by uttering an exclamation of delight at a particular flavor which the lady was kind enough to point out to him with an eloquent and emphatic fork from time to time.

Vassili noted this with some disgust.  He would have preferred that Karl Steinmetz were greedy or more conversational.

“But,” the host added aloud, “ladies are so good.  Perhaps you are interested in the peasants?”

Etta looked at Steinmetz, who gave an imperceptible nod.

“Yes,” she answered, “I am.”

Vassili followed her glance, and found Steinmetz eating with grave appreciation of the fare provided.

“Ah!” he said in an expectant tone; “then you will no doubt pass much of your time in endeavoring to alleviate their troubles—­their self-inflicted troubles, with all deference to ce cher prince.”

“Why with deference to me?” asked Paul, looking up quietly, with something in his steady gaze that made Maggie glance anxiously at Steinmetz.

“Well, I understand that you hold different opinions,” said the Russian.

“Not at all,” answered Paul.  “I admit that the peasants have themselves to blame—­just as a dog has himself to blame when he is caught in a trap.”

“Is the case analogous?  Let me recommend those olives—­I have them from Barcelona by a courier.”