“Sit down on the deck,” she continued, “and lean against the rail. You are too big to talk to up there. So! Now you can come underneath my rug. Tell me, are they afraid of me, your friends?”
“Is it without reason?” he asked. “Would not any one be afraid of you—if, indeed, they believed that you wished to know our secrets? I wonder if there is a man alive whom you could not turn round your little finger.”
She laughed at him softly.
“Ah, no!” she said. “Men are not like that, nowadays. They talk and they talk, but it is not much they would do for a woman’s sake.”
“You believe that?” he asked, in a low tone.
“I do, indeed. One reads love-stories—no, I do not mean romances, but memoirs—memoirs of the French and Austrian Courts—memoirs, even, written by Englishmen. Men were different a generation ago. Honor was dear to them then, honor and position and wealth, and yet there were many, very many then who were willing to give all these things for the love of a woman.
“And do you think there are none now?” he whispered hoarsely.
“My friend,” she answered, looking down at him, “I think that there are very few.”