"Certainly not."

"Then you will make an enemy of her," said Steinmetz quietly. "It may be
inconvenient, but that cannot be helped. A woman scorned--you know.
Shakspere or the Bible, I always mix them up. No, Paul; Catrina
Lanovitch is a dangerous enemy. She has been making love to you these
last four years, and you would have seen it if you had not been a fool!
I am afraid, my good Paul, you are a fool, God bless you for it!"

"I think you are wrong," said Paul rather curtly; "not about me being a
fool, but about Catrina Lanovitch. If you are right, however, it only
makes me dislike her instead of being perfectly indifferent to her."

His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away to look at the
clock again.

"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?"