“Who was Sydney Bamborough, at any rate?” he asked, with a careless assumption of a slanginess which is affected by society in its decadent periods.
“So far as I remember,” answered Steinmetz, “he was something in the Diplomatic Service.”
“Yes, but what?”
“My dear friend, you had better ask his widow when next you sit beside her at dinner.”
“How do you know that I sat beside her at dinner?”
“I did not know it,” replied Steinmetz, with a quiet smile which left De Chauxville in doubt as to whether he was very stupid or exceedingly clever.
“She seems to be very well off,” said the Frenchman.
“I am glad, as she is going to marry my master.”
De Chauxville laughed almost awkwardly, and for a fraction of a second he changed countenance under Steinmetz’s quiet eyes.
“One can never know whom a woman intends to marry,” said he carelessly, “even if they can themselves, which I doubt. But I do not understand how it is that she is so much better off, or appears to be, since the death of her husband.”