“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.”
“Ah, don’t mention them! They hurt none the less because we cover them with a smile, eh? I dare say you know. You have been in the thick of the fight yourself. But you did not come here to chat with me, though your manner might lead one to think so. I will not keep you.”
“I came to see Prince Pavlo,” answered Steinmetz. “I must thank you for enabling me to do so. I may not see you again this evening. My best thanks, my very dear lady.”
He bowed, and with his half-humorous, half-melancholy smile, left her.
The first face he recognized was a pretty one. Miss Maggie Delafield was just turning away from a partner who was taking his congi, when she looked across the room and saw Steinmetz. He had only met her once, barely exchanging six words with her, and her frank, friendly bow was rather a surprise to him. She came toward him, holding out her hand with an open friendliness which this young lady was in the habit of bestowing upon men and women impartially—upon persons of either sex who happened to meet with her approval. She did not know what made her incline to like this man, neither did she seek to know. In a quiet, British way Miss Delafield was a creature of impulse. Her likes and dislikes were a matter of instinct, and, much as one respects the doctrine of charity, it is a question whether an instinctive dislike should be quashed by an exaggerated sense of neighborly duty. Steinmetz she liked, and there was an end to it.
“I was afraid you did not recognize me,” she said.