“At first when you came,” she declared, “you told me everything.  You spoke of your long mornings and afternoons at the Admiralty.  You told me of the room in which you worked, the men who worked there with you.  You told me of the building of that little model, and how you were all allowed to try your own pet ideas with regard to it.  And then, all of a sudden, nothing—­not a word about what you have been doing.  I am an intelligent woman.  I love to have men friends who do things, and if they are really friends of mine, I like to enter into their life, to know of their work, to sympathise, to take an interest in it.  It was like that with you at first.  Now it has all gone.  You have drawn down a curtain.  I do not believe that you go to the Admiralty at all.  I do not believe that you have any wonderful invention there over which you spend your time.”

“Bertha, dear,” he remonstrated, “do be reasonable.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“But am I not?  See how reasonably I have spoken to you.  I have told you the exact truth.  I have told you why I do not take quite that same pleasure in your company as when you first came.”

“Do consider,” he begged.  “I spoke to you freely at first because we had not reached the stage in the work when secrecy was absolutely necessary.  At present we are all upon our honour.  From the moment we pass inside that little room, we are, to all effects and purposes, dead men.  Nothing that happens there is to be spoken of or hinted at, even to our wives or our dearest friends.  It is the etiquette of my profession, Bertha.  Be reasonable.”

“Pooh!” she exclaimed.  “Fancy asking a woman to be reasonable!  Don’t you realise, you stupid man, that if you were at liberty to tell everybody what it is that you do there, well, then I should have no more interest in it?  It is just because you say that you will not and you may not tell, that, womanlike, I am curious.”

“But whatever good could it be to you to know?” he protested.  “I should simply addle your head with a mass of technical detail, not a quarter of which you would be able to understand.  Besides, I have told you, Bertha, it is a matter of honour.”

She looked intently at her programme.

“There are men,” she murmured, “who love so much that even honour counts for little by the side of—­”

“Of what?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Of success.”

For a moment they sat in silence.  The place was not particularly hot, yet there were little beads of perspiration upon Baring’s forehead.  The fingers which held his programme twitched.  He rose suddenly to his feet.

“May I go out and have a drink?” he asked.  “I won’t go if you don’t want to be alone.”

“My dear friend, I do not mind in the least,” she assured him.  “If you find Mr. Norgate, send him here.”

In one of the smaller refreshment rooms sat Mr. Selingman, a bottle of champagne before him and a wondrously attired lady on either side.  The heads of all three were close together.  The lady on the left was talking in a low tone but with many gesticulations.