"I am not a lady's man," he added gruffly; "the good God has not shaped
me that way. I am too d--d fat. Has Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen in
love with me? Has some imprudent person shown her my photograph? I hope
not. Heaven forbid!"
He puffed steadily at his pipe, and glanced quickly at De Chauxville
through the smoke.
"No," answered the Frenchman quite gravely. Frenchmen, by the way, do
not admit that one may be too middle-aged, or too stout, for love. "But
she is au mieux with the prince."
"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.
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