“I don’t see that it is any worse being a Frog than an agent of another country, selling your own country’s secrets,” she said. “Don’t be silly, Ray! You ought to be pleased and honoured. They chose you from thousands because they wanted the right kind of intelligence . . .”
And so she flattered and soothed him, until his plastic mind, wax in her hands, took another shape.
“I suppose it is all right,” he said at last. “Of course, I wouldn’t do anything really bad, and I don’t approve of all this clubbing, but, as you say, the Frog can’t be responsible for all that his people do. But on one thing I’m firm, Lola! I’ll have no tattooing!”
She laughed and extended her white arm.
“Am I marked?” she asked. “Is Lew marked? No; the big people aren’t marked at all. Boy, you’ve a great future.”
Ray took her hand and fondled it.
“Lola . . . about that story that Gordon told . . . your being married: it isn’t true?”
She laughed again and patted the hand on hers.
“Gordon is jealous,” she said. “I can’t tell you why—now. But he has good reasons.” Suddenly her mood grew gay, and she slipped away. “Listen, I’m going to ’phone for a table for lunch, and you will join us, and we’ll drink to the great little Frog who feeds us!”
The telephone was on the sideboard, and as she lifted the receiver she saw the square black metal box clamped to its base.