“Which prince?”
“Pavlo.”
The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the other’s benevolent countenance. Steinmetz continued to smoke placidly and contentedly.
“My master,” he said at length. “I suppose that some day he will marry.”
De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the servant appeared, ordered coffee. He selected a cigarette from a silver case with considerable care, and having lighted it smoked for some moments in silence. The servant brought the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully. Steinmetz was leaning back in his deep chair, with his legs crossed. He was gazing into the fire, which burnt brightly, although it was nearly May. The habits of the Talleyrand Club are almost continental. The rooms are always too warm. The silence was that of two men knowing each other well.
“And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough?” asked Steinmetz suddenly.
“Why not, indeed?” replied De Chauxville. “It is no affair of mine. A wise man reduces his affairs to a minimum, and his interest in the affairs of his neighbor to less. But I thought it would interest you.”
“Thanks.”
The tone of the big man in the arm-chair was not dry. Karl Steinmetz knew better than to indulge in that pastime. Dryness is apt to parch the fount of expansiveness.
De Chauxville’s attention was apparently caught by an illustration in a weekly paper lying open on the table near to him. Your shifty man likes something to look at. He did not speak for some moments. Then he threw the paper aside.