“I hate your way of talking about women, Steinmetz,” he said. “You’re a cynical old beast, you know.”
“Heaven forbid, my dear prince! I admire all women—they are so clever, so innocent, so pure-minded. Do not your English novels prove it, your English stage, your newspapers, so high-toned? Who supports the novelist, the play-wright, the actor, who but your English ladies?”
“Better than being cooks—like your German ladies,” retorted Paul stoutly. “If you are German this evening. Better than being cooks.”
“I doubt it! I very much doubt it, my friend. At what time shall I present myself at Box F2 this evening?”
“About nine—as soon as you like.”
Paul looked at the clock. The pointers lagged horribly. He knew that the carriage was certain to be at the door, waiting in the quiet street with its great restless horses, its two perfectly trained men, its gleaming lamps and shining harness. But he would not allow himself the luxury of being the first arrival. Paul had himself well in hand. At last it was time to go.
“See you later,” he said.
“Thank you—yes,” replied Steinmetz, without looking up.
So Paul Howard Alexis sallied forth to seek the hand of the lady of his choice, and as he left his own door that lady was receiving Claude de Chauxville in her drawing-room. The two had not met for some weeks—not indeed since Etta had told the Frenchman that she could not marry him. Her invitation to dine, couched in the usual friendly words, had been the first move in that game commonly called “bluff.” Claude de Chauxville’s acceptance of the same had been the second move. And these two persons, who were not afraid of each other, shook hands with a pleasant smile of greeting, while Paul hurried toward them through the busy streets.
“Am I forgiven—that I am invited to dinner?” asked De Chauxville imperturbably, when the servant had left them alone.