In the course of a minute or so Fenton's thoughts, occupied with the important information that she had brought, turned to the consideration of how so vital a piece of news had been obtained. He stood in front of his intrepid companion and regarded her with stimulated interest and quite frank admiration.
"I can't understand it at all," he said. "Try as I may I can't really associate you with plots and counter-plots and secret meetings, and associations with all the rag-tag and bob-tail of Balkan intrigue. You are so fair, so young, so—well, so completely feminine that I can't see how you succeed in work that belongs, by its very nature, to the rougher animal, man."
"You are mistaken, Mistaire Fenton," she protested, "and your mistake is so thoroughly masculine! It should not be difficult for a woman to do the work I am doing. It is the work a woman can do best; it is subtle, it requires keen observation of the little things, it means that always the right word must be used; it needs some personal charm, monsieur, and a thorough knowledge of how to exploit it. Women—and women only—can be depended upon for the more delicate missions of secret service. It is man—direct, blundering, outspoken man, who thinks judgment better than intuition—who does not fit into the picture."
"You put it so well that I am almost convinced," smiled Fenton. "Still, I don't like to think of you having to associate with the likes of Miridoff and his murder crew. There are two spheres in which I like to picture you—on the stage earning the plaudits of the world, and in a cosy chair on the hearth of some lucky man's home."
"You are quite hopeless, mon ami," she sighed. "Your view-point—it is so masculine—so one-sided. Man regards woman in but two ways—he wants to possess her and to show her off. If she feels that she must achieve more than man's fatuous approval he frowns, objects, bullies, even uses force to stop her. Is it not so?"
"It is clear that you have travelled over much in America," said Fenton with a laugh. "Are such ideas common among the women of your own country?"
"Advanced thought, it is found everywhere," she replied. The conversation was becoming too abstruse for her scanty English, and she abruptly changed to French, where she was more at home. "In your America the positions have been reversed. There it is the woman who has the complete freedom and the man who is tied. The American—he is too easy. He has but two functions left to him—business and the support of his women-folk."
"Mademoiselle is a sage, I see, as well as so many other things," said Fenton, not a little puzzled at the change that had come over her. From a dainty little person, full of coquettish wiles and sidelong glances, she had suddenly become a serious woman, full of the fire of earnest purpose and determination. Genuinely interested, he asked, "Tell me, mademoiselle, do you really like this life? Can you enjoy it, with all its dangers, its insincerities, its cruelties?"
For a moment she did not answer. Her glance wandered to a window and fixed itself on outer space, while a smile that was at once brave and wistful played at the corners of her mouth.
"Yes, I like it, mon ami," she said. "It is hard; it robs one of treasured illusions; it takes the silver finish off life and shows the brass beneath. A woman who plays the great game misses much that women are supposed to want—and do want. It may be that these things will be missed from my life, but—I will not regret them. This life means that I am standing alone, fighting against things, combating circumstances, and shaping them to my own ends, trying to grasp from an unwilling hand the fruit success."