“But not quite to be trusted?”
She looked at him doubtfully. She looked at Chitta and gave her a quick order that sent the duenna reluctantly ahead of them. Then the Lady put her gloved hand on Cartaret’s arm.
“I want you to be my friend,” she said.
“I am your friend,” he protested: “that is what I want you to believe. That is why I ask you to be frank with me. I want you to tell me just enough to let me help—to let me protect you. If you are in danger, I want——”
“I?”
She bowed assent.
“No, do not ask me why. I shall not tell you. I shall never tell you—no more,” she smiled, “than I shall ever say for you ‘it’s me.’ It is very kind of you to want to be my friend. I am alone here in Paris, except for poor Chitta, and I shall be glad if you will be my friend; but it will not be very easy.”
“It would be hard to be anything else.”
“Not for you: you are too curious. My friend must let me be just what I am here. All that I was before I came to Paris, all that I may be after I leave it, he must ask nothing about.”