“You think I do not admire you,” replied Steinmetz imperturbably.

She looked up at him.

“Do you not give me every reason to think so?” she returned, with a toss of the head.

She was one of those women—­and there are not a few—­who would quarrel with you if you do not admire them.

“Not intentionally, princess.  I am, as you know, a German of no very subtle comprehension.  My position in your household appears to me to be a little above the servants, although the prince is kind enough to make a friend of me and his friends are so good as to do the same.  I do not complain.  Far from it.  I am well paid.  I am interested in my work.  I am more or less my own master.  I am very fond of Paul.  You—­are kind and forbearing.  I do my best—­in a clumsy way, no doubt—­to spare you my heavy society.  But of course I do not presume to form an opinion upon your—­upon you.”

“But I want you to form an opinion,” she said petulantly.

“Then you must know that I could only form one which would be pleasing to you.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” replied Etta.  “Of course I know that all that you say about position and work is mere irony.  Paul thinks there is no one in the world like you.”

Steinmetz glanced sharply down at her.  He had never considered the possibility that she might love Paul.  Was this, after all, jealousy?  He had attributed it to vanity.

“And I have no doubt he is right,” she went on.  Suddenly she gave a little laugh.  “Don’t you understand?” she said.  “I want to be friends.”

She did not look at him, but sat with pouting lips holding out her hand.

Karl Steinmetz had been up to the elbows, as it were, in the diplomacy of an unscrupulous, grasping age ever since his college days.  He had been behind the scenes in more than one European crisis, and that which goes on behind the scenes is not always edifying or conducive to a squeamishness of touch.  He was not the man to be mawkishly afraid of soiling his fingers.  But the small white hand rather disconcerted him.

He took it, however, in his great, warm, soft grasp, held it for a moment, and relinquished it.

“I don’t want you to address all your conversation to Maggie, and to ignore me.  Do you think Maggie so very pretty?”

There was a twist beneath the gray mustache as he answered, “Is that all the friendship you desire?  Does it extend no farther than a passing wish to be first in petty rivalries of daily existence?  I am afraid, my dear princess, that my friendship is a heavier matter—­a clumsier thing than that.”

“A big thing not easily moved,” she suggested, looking up with her dauntless smile.

He shrugged his great shoulders.

“It may be—­who knows?  I hope it is,” he answered.

“The worst of those big things is that they are sometimes in the way,” said Etta reflectively, without looking at him.