"Of course not. Five thousand sterling a year: it is a fortune in this miserable country; and then there are perquisites."
M. de Kervoisin had finished his breakfast. He pushed his cup and plate on one side, and resting both his elbows on the table, he looked intently at his friend, while a sarcastic smile curled round his thin lips.
"So," he said, "you imagined this little scheme for putting yourself right before your Government—and before the world—by getting the beautiful Uno to write glowing accounts of your marvellous administration of Transylvania, for the benefit of English and American readers? Is that it?"
"Well, wouldn't you?" Naniescu retorted.
"Yes. But you are not succeeding, my friend," M. de Kervoisin added with the suspicion of a sneer. "What?"
"I shall succeed in the end," Naniescu rejoined. "With the help of my friend——" But at this point he was silenced by a peremptory gesture of his friend's hand.
"Sh!" de Kervoisin broke in quickly. "I shouldn't mention his name—not even here."
"Oh, we are safe enough."
"Walls have ears, my friend," the other riposted, "even in this perfectly administered land. And our friend's work would be futile if his identity was suspected. I introduced him to you as Number Ten. Number Ten let him remain."
"I suppose I can trust him," Naniescu mused. "You assured me that I could. But, bah!" he added with a contemptuous shrug. "Can one trust those English?"