“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.”