In these democratic days a very democratic theory has exploded. Not so very long ago we believed, or made semblance of belief, that it is useless to put a high price upon a ticket with the object of securing that selectness for which the high-born crave. “If they want to come,” Lady Champignon (wife of Alderman Champignon) would say, “they do not mind paying the extra half-guinea.”

But Lady Champignon was wrong. It is not that the self-made man cannot or will not pay two guineas for a ball-ticket. It is merely that, in his commercial way, he thinks that he will not have his money’s worth, and therefore prefers keeping his two guineas to spend on something more tangible—say food. The nouveau riche never quite purges his mind of the instinct commercial, and it therefore goes against the grain to pay heavily for a form of entertainment which his soul had not the opportunity of learning to love in its youth. The aristocrat, on the other hand, has usually been brought up to the cultivation of enjoyment, and he therefore spends with perfect equanimity more on his pleasure than the bourgeois mind can countenance.

The ball to which Paul and Etta were going was managed by some titled ladies who knew their business well. The price of the tickets was fabulous. The lady patronesses of the great Charity Ball were tactful and unabashed. They drew the necessary line (never more necessary than it is to-day) with a firm hand.

The success of the ball was therefore a foregone conclusion. In French fiction there is invariably a murmur of applause when the heroine enters a room full of people, which fact serves, at all events, to show the breeding and social status of persons with whom French novelists are in the habit of associating. There was therefore no applause when Paul and Etta made their appearance, but that lady had, nevertheless, the satisfaction of perceiving glances, not only of admiration, but of interest and even of disapproval, among her own sex. Her dress she knew to be perfect, and when she perceived the craning pale face of the inevitable lady-journalist, peering between the balusters of a gallery, she thoughtfully took up a prominent position immediately beneath that gallery, and slowly turned round like a beautifully garnished joint before the fire of cheap publicity.

To Paul this ball was much like others. There were a number of the friends of his youth—tall, clean-featured, clean-limbed men, with a tendency toward length and spareness—who greeted him almost affectionately. Some of them introduced him to their wives and sisters, which ladies duly set him down as nice but dull—a form of faint praise which failed to damn. There were a number of ladies to whom it was necessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which had missed their mark. From the gallery the washed-out female journalists poked out their eager faces—for they were women still, and liked to look upon a man when he was strong.

And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English at the door, upbraiding hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting two literal facts literally. The one fact was that they were forbidden to admit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets were not to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the two great motives of man—Love or Money.

Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon of a great Order on his breast. He mentioned the names of several ladies who might have been, but were not, of the committee. Finally, however, he mentioned the historic name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russian emperor successfully for England.

“Yes, me lord, her ladyship’s here,” answered the man.

Steinmetz wrote on a card, “In memory of ‘56, let me in,” and sent in the missive.

A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came toward him with outstretched hand.

“What mischief are you about?” she enquired, “you stormy petrel! This is no place for your deep-laid machinations. We are here to enjoy ourselves and found a hospital. Come in, however. I am delighted to see you. You used to be a famous dancer—well, some little time ago.”

“Yes, my dear countess, let us say some little time ago. Ach, those were days! those were days! You do not mind the liberty I have taken?”

“I am glad you took it. But your card gave me a little tug at the heart. It brought back so much. And still plain Karl Steinmetz—after all. We used to think much of you in the old days. Who would have thought that all the honors would have slipped past you?”

Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a heart-whole laugh.

“Ah, what matter? Who cares, so long as my old friends remember me? Who would have thought, my dear madam, that the map of Europe would have been painted the colors it is to-day? It was a kaleidoscope—the clatter of many stools, and I fell down between them all. Still plain Karl Steinmetz—still very much at your service. Shall I send my check for five guineas to you?”

“Yes, do; I am secretary. Always businesslike; a wonderful man you are still.”

“And you, my dear countess, a wonderful lady. Always gay, always courageous. I have heard and sympathized. I have heard of many blows and wounds that you have received in the battle we began—well, some little time ago.”

“Ah, don’t mention them! They hurt none the less because we cover them with a smile, eh? I dare say you know. You have been in the thick of the fight yourself. But you did not come here to chat with me, though your manner might lead one to think so. I will not keep you.”

“I came to see Prince Pavlo,” answered Steinmetz. “I must thank you for enabling me to do so. I may not see you again this evening. My best thanks, my very dear lady.”

He bowed, and with his half-humorous, half-melancholy smile, left her.

The first face he recognized was a pretty one. Miss Maggie Delafield was just turning away from a partner who was taking his congi, when she looked across the room and saw Steinmetz. He had only met her once, barely exchanging six words with her, and her frank, friendly bow was rather a surprise to him. She came toward him, holding out her hand with an open friendliness which this young lady was in the habit of bestowing upon men and women impartially—upon persons of either sex who happened to meet with her approval. She did not know what made her incline to like this man, neither did she seek to know. In a quiet, British way Miss Delafield was a creature of impulse. Her likes and dislikes were a matter of instinct, and, much as one respects the doctrine of charity, it is a question whether an instinctive dislike should be quashed by an exaggerated sense of neighborly duty. Steinmetz she liked, and there was an end to it.

“I was afraid you did not recognize me,” she said.

“My life has not so many pleasures that I can afford to forget one of them,” replied Steinmetz, in his somewhat old-fashioned courtesy. “But an old—buffer, shall I say?—hardly expects to be taken much notice of by young ladies at a ball.”

“It is not ten minutes since Paul assured me that you were the best dancer that Vienna ever produced,” said the girl, looking at him with bright, honest eyes.

Karl Steinmetz looked down at her, for he was a tall man when Paul Alexis was not near. His quiet gray eyes were almost affectionate. There was a sudden sympathy between these two, and sudden sympathies are the best.

“Will you give an old man a trial?” he asked. “They will laugh at you.”

She handed him her programme.

“Let them laugh!” she said.

He took the next dance, which happened to be vacant on her card. Almost immediately the music began, and they glided off together. Maggie began with the feeling that she was dancing with her own father, but this wore off before they had made much progress through the crowd, and gave way to the sensation that she had for partner the best dancer she had ever met, gray-haired, stout, and middle-aged.

“I wanted to speak to you,” she said.

“Ah!” Steinmetz answered. He was steering with infinite skill. In that room full of dancers no one touched Maggie’s elbow or the swing of her dress, and she, who knew what such things meant, smiled as she noted it.

“I have been asked to go and stay at Osterno,” she said. “Shall I go?”

“By whom?”

“By Paul.”

“Then go,” said Steinmetz, making one of the few mistakes of his life.

“You think so—you want me to go?”

“Ach! you must not put it like that. How well you dance—colossal! But it does not affect me—your going, fra"lein.”

“Since you will be there?”

“Does that make a difference, my dear young lady?”

“Of course it does.”

“I wonder why.”

“So do I,” answered Maggie frankly. “I wonder why. I have been wondering why, ever since Paul asked me. If you had not been going I should have said ‘No’ at once.”

Karl Steinmetz laughed quietly.

“What do I represent?” he asked.

“Safety,” she replied at once.

She gave a queer little laugh and went on dancing.

“And Paul?” he said, after a little while.

“Strength,” replied Maggie promptly.

He looked down at her—a momentary glance of wonder. He was like a woman, inasmuch as he judged a person by a flicker of the eyelids—a glance, a silence—in preference to judging by the spoken word.

“Then with us both to take care of you, may we hope that you will brave the perils of Osterno? Ah—the music is stopping.”

“If I may assure my mother that there are no perils.”

Something took place beneath the gray mustache—a smile or a pursing up of the lips in doubt.

“Ah, I cannot go so far as that. You may assure Lady Delafield that I will protect you as I would my own daughter. If—well, if the good God in heaven had not had other uses for me I should have had a daughter of your age. Ach! the music has stopped. The music always does stop, Miss Delafield; that is the worst of it. Thank you for dancing with an old buffer.”

He took her back to her chaperon, bowed in his old-world way to both ladies, and left them.

“If I can help it, my very dear young friend,” he said to himself as he crossed the room, looking for Paul, “you will not go to Osterno.”

He found Paul talking to two men.

“You here!” said Paul, in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Steinmetz, shaking hands. “I gave Lady Fontain five guineas to let me in, and now I want a couple of chairs and a quiet corner, if the money includes such.”

“Come up into the gallery,” replied Paul.

A certain listlessness which had been his a moment before vanished when Paul recognized his friend. He led the way up the narrow stairs. In the gallery they found a few people—couples seeking, like themselves, a rare solitude.

“What news?” asked Paul, sitting down.

“Bad!” replied Steinmetz. “We have had the misfortune to make a dangerous enemy—Claude de Chauxville.”

“Claude de Chauxville,” repeated Paul.

“Yes. He wanted to marry your wife—for her money.”

Paul leaned forward and dragged at his great fair mustache. He was not a subtle man, analyzing his own thoughts. Had he been, he might have wondered why he was not more jealous in respect to Etta.

“Or,” went on Steinmetz, “it may have been—the other thing. It is a singular thing that many men incapable of a lifelong love, can conceive a lifelong hatred based on that love. Claude de Chauxville has hated me all his life; for very good reasons, no doubt. You are now included in his antipathy because you married madame.”

“I dare say,” replied Paul carelessly. “But I am not afraid of Claude de Chauxville, or any other man.”

“I am,” said Steinmetz. “He is up to some mischief. I was calling on the Countess Lanovitch in Petersburg when in walked Claude de Chauxville. He was constrained at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, which was a mistake. Now, what is he doing in Petersburg? He has not been there for ten years, at least. He has no friends there. He revived a minute acquaintance with the Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of the very first water. Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he had wheedled an invitation to Thors out of the old lady. Why, my friend, why?”

Paul reflected, with a frown.

“We do not want him out there,” he said.

“No; and if he goes there you must remain in England this winter.”

Paul looked up sharply.

“I do not want to do that. It is all arranged,” he said. “Etta was very much against going at first, but I persuaded her to do so. It would be a mistake not to go now.”

Looking at him gravely, Steinmetz muttered, “I advise you not to go.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders.

“I am sorry,” he said. “It is too late now. Besides, I have invited Miss Delafield, and she has practically accepted.”

“Does that matter?” asked Steinmetz quietly.

“Yes. I do not want her to think that I am a changeable sort of person.”

Steinmetz rose, and standing with his two hands on the marble rail he looked down into the room below. The music of a waltz was just beginning, and some of the more enthusiastic spirits had already begun dancing, moving in and out among the uniforms and gay dresses.

“Well,” he said resignedly; “it is as you will. There is a certain pleasure in outwitting De Chauxville. He is so d—d clever!”