He nodded, slowly but none-the-less definitely.
She took a cigarette and lighted it with careful attention, then blew the smoke sharply against the incandescent coal.
“Guy,” said she, “I’m about to speak plainly; please don’t misunderstand; I’m simply a woman, now—a weak woman, perhaps; it will be for you to judge me at the end.” She smiled faintly.
“Not a weak woman, Madeline,” he replied. “Your worst enemy would not venture to call you that.”
He wondered what more was coming, and at what directed. Her tone and attitude and deprecation of self were new to him. He had never seen her so; always she was the embodification of calm, self-reliance, poise, never flustered, never disturbed. A weak woman! It was so absurd as to be ridiculous, and she was aware of it. So what was the play with so bald a notice to beware?
“No, no, Guy,” said she. “You think it’s a play, but it isn’t. It’s the simple truth I’m about to tell you, and as truth I pray you take it.”
“I’ll take it as you wish it taken,” he responded, more than ever mystified.
She carefully laid her cigarette on the receiver, then arose and leaned against the table, her hands behind her. He arose also, but she declined the courtesy.
“Keep your seat,” she said, “and don’t be alarmed, I’m not preparing to have you daggered or garroted. Entirely the reverse, Guy. I’ve decided to offer terms: to capitulate; to throw the whole thing over; to betray my mission and get out of the service forever. No, don’t smile incredulously, I mean it.”
“Good Lord!” thought Harleston. “What is coming and where do we go?” What he said, however, was: