“Well,” said I, “I can’t imagine what she wants, but you may admit her—­Stay a moment—­could you manage to overhear the conversation?”

“Only by leaving the door ajar.”

“Well, do what you can,” I said.

I was curious by what name he would announce the lady; but he used none.  He simply swung back the door and spoke into the outer room: 

“Madame, His Royal Highness will receive you.”

“You are most kind, Colonel Bernheim,” she said, in her sweetest tones, as she passed him; “I owe you many thanks.”

“You owe me none, madame,” was the rather gruff answer.

Then he went out, and closed the door with altogether unnecessary vigor.

She turned and looked after him.

“What a great bear he is, Armand,” she said, with a confidential air.

I stiffened.  “You wished to see me, Mrs. Spencer,” I said.

She laughed.  “Still denying me, are you?” she rippled—­“And even in your own private office!”

I looked at her, in silence.

“Please don’t trouble to offer me a chair, dear,” she went on; “this one looks comfortable,”—­then calmly seated herself, and began to draw off her gloves.

The cool assurance of the woman was so absurd I had to smile.

“I fancy it would be quite superfluous to offer you anything that chanced to be within your reach,” I said.

“Certainly, dear, when, at the same time, it chances to be my husband’s,” she answered, and fell to smoothing out her gloves.

“Come, come!” I exclaimed.  “What’s the sense in keeping up the farce?”

“What farce, Armand, dear?”

“That I am your husband,” I answered curtly.  Her ‘dears’ and her ‘Armands’ were getting on my nerves.

Her face took on an injured look.

“Judging from your action, the other night and now, it would be well for me if it were a farce,” she said sadly.

I walked over to the table, on the far side of which she sat.

“Is it possible, madame, that, here, alone with me, you still have the effrontery to maintain you are my wife?”

She put her elbows on the table and, resting her chin in her hands, looked me straight in the eyes.

“And do you, sir, here, alone with me, still have the effrontery to maintain that I am not your wife?” she asked.

“It’s not necessary,” said I, “for you know it quite as well as I do.”

She shrugged her shoulders.  “You’re a good bit of a brute, Armand.”

“And you’re a——­” I began quickly—­then stopped.

“Yes?” she inflected.  “I am a——?”

“I leave the blank to your own filling,” I said, with a bow.

She laughed gayly.  “Do you know you have played this scene very nicely, my dear,” she said.  “If Colonel Bernheim has chanced to stay close enough to the door, he so neatly slammed ajar, he has heard all that we have said.  Though, whether it was by your order or due to his own curiosity, I, of course, do not know.  Either way, however, you scored with him.”