"And now," Rosemary went on resolutely, "that I have made amende honorable, will you allow me to plead the Imreys' cause in all earnestness. In the name of humanity, Monsieur le Général? The boy is only nineteen."
The general leaned back in his chair, his well-manicured fingers gently stroking his silky moustache, his eyes no longer attempting to conceal the satisfaction which he felt at seeing this exquisitely beautiful woman in the rôle of a suppliant before him. Now when she paused he gave an indifferent shrug.
"Dear lady," he said, "my experience of this part of the world is that boys and girls of nineteen who give up jazzing and have not started making love, but who choose to meddle in politics, are veritable pests."
"But Philip Imrey does not meddle in politics," Rosemary protested.
"Are you quite sure of that?" he retorted.
As he said this his eyes became quite small, and piercing like two little flaming darts; but though his sudden challenge had sent a stab of apprehension through Rosemary's heart, her glance never faltered, and she lied straight out, lied boldly without hesitation, without a blush.
"I am quite sure," she replied.
And the only compunction she felt over that lie was when she realized—as she did at once—that the Roumanian did not believe her.
"Little Anna Heves did not confide in you?" he asked, with perfect suavity.
"What do you mean?"