Señor Dasso returned to his position by the fire, one arm resting on the high mantleboard and letting his monocle fall with a little tinkle against his shirt front. The men at the table tore open another pack of cards and resumed their game.
But it was late, and the play became desultory. Following such an exciting hand, the cards ran badly, and after the next "jackpot" the Count and Captain Olalla took their leave.
Lieutenant Mozara carried his glass over and joined Dasso, who still maintained his position by the fireplace. He made way for the younger man, and—
"A good evening's play, eh, Mozara?"
"So so, but I say, Dasso, was it hardly playing the game to drag Julie into it? I don't like being laughed at."
"Oh, a little chaff is the least one has to pay for one's gallantries."
"I expect you did the same, at my age."
Señor Dasso turned and contemplated his handsome face with its iron-grey imperial in the pier-glass before replying.
"Worse, my dear boy, far worse. San Pietro was not then what it is now, but Paris was—Paris—and so was Vienna."
There was silence for a moment, and it was Mozara who first broke it.