“You consider me, I suppose,” she observed after a moment’s pause, “an enemy spy?”

“You have proved it,” he reminded her.

“Of Overman—­my confederate,” she admitted, “that was true.  Of me it is not.  I am an honest intermediary between the honest people of Germany and England.”

“There can be no communication between the two countries during wartime, except through official channels,” he declared.

Her eyes flashed.  She seemed in the throes of one of those little bursts of tempestuous passion which sometimes assailed her.

“You talk—­well, as you might be supposed to talk!” she exclaimed, breaking off with an effort.  “What have official channels done to end this war?  I am not here to help either side.  I represent simply humanity.  If you destroy or hand over to the Government that packet, you will do your country an evil turn.”

He shook his head.

“I am relieved to hear all that you say,” he told her, “and I am heartily glad to think that you do not look upon yourself as Overman’s associate.  On the other hand, you must know that any movement towards peace, except through the authorised channels, is treason to the country.”

“If only you were not the Honourable Julian Orden, the son of an English peer!” she groaned.  “If only you had not been to Eton and to Oxford!  If only you were a man, a man of the people, who could understand!”

“Neither my birth nor my education,” he assured her, “have affected my present outlook upon life.”

“Pooh!” she scoffed.  “You talk like a stiffened sheet of foolscap!  I am to leave here to-morrow, then, without my packet?”

“You must certainly leave—­when you do leave—­without that,” he assented.  “There is one thing, however, which I very sincerely hope that you will leave behind you.”

“And that?”

“Your forgiveness.”

“My forgiveness for what?” she asked, after a moment’s pause.

“For my rashness this morning.”

Her eyes grew a little larger.

“Because you kissed me?” she observed, without flinching.  “I have nothing to forgive.  In fact,” she went on, “I think that I should have had more to forgive if you had not.”

He was puzzled and yet encouraged.  She was always bewildering him by her sudden changes from the woman of sober thoughtfulness to the woman of feeling, the woman eager to give, eager to receive.  At that moment it seemed as though her sex possessed her to the exclusion of everything outside.  Her eyes were soft and filled with the desire of love, her lips sweet and tremulous.  She had suddenly created a new atmosphere around her, an atmosphere of bewildering and passionate femininity.

“Wont you tell me, please, what you mean?” he begged.

“Isn’t it clear?” she answered, very softly but with a suspicion of scorn in her low tones.  “You kissed me because I deliberately invited it.  I know that quite well.  My anger—­and I have been angry about it—­is with myself.”