"Tell me," she asked, "it was my little friend Emilie, was it not, who persuaded you to come and see me?"
"It was a little girl with whose name, even, I was unacquainted," Julien replied. "I must admit that I scarcely took her request seriously. I could not conceive anything which you might have to say which could justify the intrusion of a perfect stranger."
"But you," she reminded him, "are not a perfect stranger. You have been a public man. You see, I am not afraid of hurting you because I think that you will soon get over that little sensitiveness. I know all about you—everything. You trusted a woman. Ah! monsieur, it is dangerous, that."
"Madame," he said, looking into her wonderful eyes, "one makes that mistake once, perhaps, in a lifetime—never again."
"The woman who deceives," she sighed, "makes it so difficult for all those who come after! I suppose already in your mind I figure as a sort of adventuress, is it not so?"
"Certainly, madame," he answered calmly. "It never occurred to me to doubt but that you were something of the sort."
She half closed her eyes and laughed softly to herself, moving her head like a child, as though from sheer pleasure.
"It is delicious, this frankness!" she exclaimed. "Ah! what a pity that you did not come before that other woman had destroyed all your faith! We might, perhaps, have been friends. Who can tell?"
"It is possible," he assented.
"So you believe that I am an adventuress," she continued. "You think that I sent for you probably to try and steal one by one all those wonderful secrets which I suppose you have stored up at the back of your head. One cannot be Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs without knowing things. Keep them to yourself, Sir Julien. I ask you no questions."