He put out his hand deprecatingly.
"I imagined," I said, fluttering my fan viciously, "that I dealt with diplomats who regarded my service as much their secret as my own;" and I spoke with warmth, for I felt I had deserved better of him than this.
From my heart I loved these commissions for the excitement they afforded me, and not for mere gain; for what was that to me? My most hazardous adventure brought me the souvenir I chose—a plain gold bangle engraved with the date; my most romantic, a diamond necklace worthy of an empress.
Monsieur Roché stayed the fan that I was fluttering wildly in my indignation, and gently took my fingers in his own.
"Why is a woman the sternest critic—the harshest judge of her best friends?" he asked. "You are an accomplished woman, a clever woman, a beautiful woman, and yet—"
"Simply a woman," I interjected.
"And therefore as lacking in reason as all others of your sex, and as prone to jump at erroneous conclusions. No one in the world knows of what you call your Secret Service save those whom you have met and defeated, and they would be the last to proclaim it."
I felt miserably repentant—what creatures of impulse even the cleverest of women are!—so, smiling upon him, I handed back the fan.
"The vanquished must deliver up his sword," I cried. "I own I was in the wrong, so take a woman's weapon as a sign."
"My dearest friend is in Paris," he said, as he slowly waved the ostrich-plumes, "and in great trouble."