De Chauxville counted back with his slim fingers on the table—delightfully innocent.
“Yes,” he said, “the years seem to fly in coveys. Do you ever see any of our friends of that time—you who are in Russia?”
“Who were our friends of that time?” parried Steinmetz, polishing his glasses with a silk handkerchief. “My memory is a broken reed—you remember?”
For a moment Claude de Chauxville met the full, quiet, gray eyes.
“Yes,” he said significantly, “I remember. Well—for instance, Prince Dawoff?”
“Dead. I never see him—thank Heaven!”
“The princess?”
“I never see; she keeps a gambling house in Paris.”
“And little Andrea?”
“Never sees me. Married to a wholesale undertaker, who has buried her past.”