“And you did not mention my name?” I asked anxiously.
“No. Why? You talk as though you don’t want him to know you are in Paris.”
“You have exactly guessed my desire,” I replied. “If you meet him again, kindly oblige me by saying nothing.”
“Do not utter a word regarding matters here at the Embassy, Sibyl,” added her father seriously. “You understand?”
“Of course not. I’m a diplomat’s daughter, and can keep a secret when necessary. But tell me, father,” she added, “who is the woman of whom you were speaking when I came in?”
“It is our affair, my dear—entirely our affair,” he said in a hard voice. “It is nothing you need trouble your head over. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the ball. Say good-night, and leave us.”
“But you look quite ill,” she said with concern in her voice, stroking his heated forehead with her hand. “Cannot I get you something?”
“Nothing, dear.”
She was a charming type of English girl, smart, accomplished, and utterly devoted to her father. That she delighted in mild flirtations here and there in the cosmopolitan circle in which she moved I was well aware, and we were such old friends that I often chaffed her about her fickleness. But that night she had met Rodolphe Wolf, of all men. The fact was strange, to say the least.
“Shall I send Harding to you?” she asked, standing there in the shadow, the diamond star in her well-dressed hair alone catching the light and gleaming with a thousand fires. The star was a parting gift to her by Queen Margherita of Italy, with whom she had been an especial favourite while her father was Ambassador in Rome.