"But how clumsy to tell me, even though I asked," she exclaimed. "What is she like? … But no, I do not wish to hear of her! If she is all the world to you, why did you send me that little note? Why are you here?"
"Because we were once dear friends, Sonia," he said, "because I wish to save you from great trouble."
She shrank from him a little fearfully.
"What do you mean?"
"Sonia," he continued, with a note of sternness in his tone, "during the last two years you have gone back and forth between New York and Paris, six times. I do not think that you can make that journey again."
She was standing now, with one hand gripping the edge of the table.
"John! … John! … What do you mean?" she demanded, and this time her own voice was hard.
"I mean," he said, "that when you leave here for Paris you will be watched day and night. The moment you set foot upon French soil you will be arrested and searched. If anything is found upon you, such as a message from your friend in Washington—well, you know what it would mean. Can't you see, you foolish child, the risk you have been running? Would you care to be branded as a spy?—you, a daughter of France?"
She struck at him. Her lace sleeves had fallen back, and her white arm, with its little clenched fist, flashed through the twilight, aimlessly yet passionately.
"You dare to call me a spy! You, John?" she shrieked. "But it is horrible."