Summers laughed good-naturedly.
"It's impossible, Catin. This boat is a government secret in itself, and my new torpedo makes it a double secret. No one but a picked crew will be allowed on it, except—"
"'Except, sir?"
"Well, I admit I could command it. But it would be very unwise, Catin, and, I assure you, I shall get along all right."
Mlle. de Longeon's apartment was characteristic of the lady herself. The artist would have found it a little too luxurious for good taste— a little over-toned in the richness of draperies, the heavy scent of flowers, the subtleties of half-screened divans—there was something more than feminine—something feline. To Raymond Owen, however, it was ideal. The dimmed ruby lights, the suggestive shadows of the tapestries, were in tune with the surreptitious mind of the secretary. But there remained for him a picture that he admired more—Mlle. de Longeon coming through the portieres with a cry of pleasure.
"I am so glad you came—and so sorry I must send you away quickly," exclaimed Mlle. de Longeon. "The little ensign has telephoned that he is coming early to take me for a drive before the ball."
"I can come again—if I may have the honor," said Owen, rising quickly.
"Oh, there is time for a word," she said, smiling.
"There was something you wished to say to me, was there not? Something you did not care to say at the luncheon yesterday?"
"Yes. Why do you hate Miss Marvin?"