“Ah!” he said deprecatingly.  “That is nothing.  Time leaves its mark upon all of us.  It was not yesterday that we were in Petersburg together.”

“No,” answered Steinmetz.  “It was before the German Empire—­many years ago.”

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.”

“En gros?”

“Et en detail.”

“The Count Lanovitch,” pursued De Chauxville, “where is he?”

“Banished for his connection with the Charity League.”

“Catrina?”

“Catrina is living in the province of Tver—­we are neighbors—­she and her mother, the countess.”

De Chauxville nodded.  None of the details really interested him.  His indifference was obvious.

“Ah! the Countess Lanovitch,” he said reflectively, “she was a foolish woman.”

“And is.”

M. de Chauxville laughed.  This clumsy German ex-diplomat amused him immensely.  Many people amuse us who are themselves amused in their sleeve.

“And—­er—­the Sydney Bamboroughs,” said the Frenchman, as if the name had almost left his memory.

Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took up the Morning Post.  He unfolded the sheet slowly, and having found what he sought, he read aloud: 

“’His Excellency the Roumanian Ambassador gave a select dinner-party at 4 Craven Gardens, yesterday.  Among the guests were the Baron de Chauxville, Feneer Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and others.’”

Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his chair.

“So, my dear friend,” he said, “it is probable that you know more about the Sydney Bamboroughs than I do.”

If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted he certainly did not show it.  His was a face eminently calculated to conceal whatever thought or feeling might be passing through his mind.  Of an even white complexion—­verging on pastiness—­he was handsome in a certain statuesque way.  His features were always composed and dignified; his hair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but ever smooth and sleek upon his high, narrow brow.  His eyes had that dulness which is characteristic of many Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to the habitual enjoyment of too rich a cuisine and too many cigarettes.