Their mutual friends in New York had included many women of gentle birth with whom Paul Zulka had always been more or less of a favorite. Concerning these, individually and collectively, Carter's replies to his friend's inquiries had been equally frank and responsive.
"So you left no sweetheart behind, Cal?"
"No, Paul. I'd not leave a sweetheart. I'd make her my wife."
"In the face of a congé?"
"You ought to know me better. I never take 'no' for an answer." Carter's pride glowed in his face as he made this reply.
"The Duchess of Schallberg," announced Zulka, "will marry the King of Krovitch to unite the two houses. She has pledged herself." This seemingly irrelevant announcement was made through a swirling cloud of smoke.
"So?" Carter strove to make his reply partake of easy nonchalance, but his throat tightened so that he could feel his face go red and hot. It was as if Paul had intimated that he, Calvert Carter, would seek and be refused by the Duchess of Schallberg. He was thankful the Krovitzer was not looking just then.
Had he been wise, Carter would have said no more. But failing to emphasize his disinterestedness, he added to his monosyllabic exclamation a query in a studied tone of unconcern.
"What's that got to do with us, old chap?"
Zulka leaned forward confidentially as he laid a friendly hand upon the other's knee.