“All the more reason for doing as I have suggested, Madam; for Mr. Calhoun is not even so fat as I am.  This little interview with my chief, I doubt not, will prove of interest.  Indeed”—­I went on seriously and intently—­“I venture to say this much without presuming on my station:  the talk which you will have with my chief to-night will show you things you have never known, give you an interest in living which perhaps you have not felt.  If I am not mistaken, you will find much in common between you and my master.  I speak not to the agent of England, but to the lady Helena von Ritz.”

“He is old,” she went on.  “He is very old.  His face is thin and bloodless and fleshless.  He is old.”

“Madam,” I said, “his mind is young, his purpose young, his ambition young; and his country is young.  Is not the youth of all these things still your own?”

She made no answer, but sat musing, drumming lightly on the chair arm.  I was reaching for her cloak.  Then at once I caught a glimpse of her stockinged foot, the toe of which slightly protruded from beneath her ball gown.  She saw the glance and laughed.

“Poor feet,” she said.  “Ah, mes pauvres pieds la!  You would like to see them bruised by the hard going in some heathen country?  See you have no carriage, and mine is gone.  I have not even a pair of shoes.  Go look under the bed beyond.”

I obeyed her gladly enough.  Under the fringe of the satin counterpane I found a box of boots, slippers, all manner of footwear, daintily and neatly arranged.  Taking out a pair to my fancy, I carried them out and knelt before her.

“Then, Madam,” said I, “since you insist on this, I shall choose.  America is not Europe.  Our feet here have rougher going and must be shod for it.  Allow me!”

Without the least hesitation in the world, or the least immodesty, she half protruded the foot which still retained its slipper.  As I removed this latter, through some gay impulse, whose nature I did not pause to analyze, I half mechanically thrust it into the side pocket of my coat.

“This shall be security,” said I, “that what you speak with my master shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

There was a curious deeper red in her cheek.  I saw her bosom beat the faster rhythm.

“Quite agreed!” she answered.  But she motioned me away, taking the stout boot in her own hand and turning aside as she fastened it.  She looked over her shoulder at me now and again while thus engaged.

“Tell me,” she said gently, “what security do I have?  You come, by my invitation, it is true, but none the less an intrusion, into my apartments.  You demand of me something which no man has a right to demand.  Because I am disposed to be gracious, and because I am much disposed to be ennuye, and because Mr. Pakenham is fat, I am willing to take into consideration what you ask.  I have never seen a thin gentleman in a woolen nightcap, and I am curious.  But no gentleman plays games with ladies in which the dice are loaded for himself.  Come, what security shall I have?”