“It is an accomplishment which I never mastered,” I declared.

She sighed.  All the time I knew quite well that she carried on this little war of words impatiently.  There were other things of which she desired to speak.

“Tell me, monsieur,” she said, “what had he done to you, this man Tapilow?”

I shook my head.

“You must forgive me,” I said.  “That is between him and me.”

“And Monsieur Louis,” she murmured.

“Louis knew nothing about it,” I declared.

She seemed perplexed.  She had evidently made up her mind that Louis had taken me there with the object of meeting Tapilow, and for some reason the truth was interesting to her.

“It was a quarrel about a woman, of course,” she murmured,—­“the friend of monsieur, or perhaps a relation.  I am jealous!  Tell me, then, that it was a relation.”

“Mademoiselle,” I answered gravely, “I cannot discuss with you the cause of the quarrel between that man and myself.  Forgive me if I remind you that it is a very painful subject.  Forgive me if I remind you, too,” I added, taking her other hand in mine for a moment, “that when I saw you scribble those few lines and send them across to me, and when I read what you said and came here, it was not to answer questions about any other person.”

She raised her eyes to mine.  They were curiously and wonderfully blue.  Then she shook her head and withdrew her hands, sighing.

“But, monsieur,” she said, “since then many things have happened.  You must not show yourself about in Paris.  It is better for you to go back to England.”

“I am quite safe here,” I declared.

“Then it has been arranged!” she exclaimed quickly.  “Louis is, after all, monsieur’s friend.  He has perhaps seen—­”

“We will not talk of these things,” I begged.  “I would rather—­”

She started, and drew a little away, glancing nervously toward the door.

“I am terrified,” she said.  “Monsieur must come to my apartments one afternoon, where we can talk without fear.  There is one more question, though,” she continued rapidly.  “Louis looked often at us.  Tell me, did he say anything to you about Monsieur Bartot and myself?”

“Nothing,” I answered, “except that Monsieur Bartot held a somewhat unique position in a certain corner of Paris, and that he was a person whom it was not well to offend.”

“No more?” she asked.

“No more,” I answered.

“I saw him point us out to you,” she remarked.

“I asked him to show me the most beautiful woman in the room,” I answered.

She shook her head.

“You are too much of a courtier for an Englishman,” she said.  “You do not mean what you say.”

“Even an Englishman,” I answered, “can find words when he is sufficiently moved.”

I made a feint again to hold her hands, but she drew away.

“When are you going back to England?” she asked abruptly.