He was a little taken aback.  Her perfect naturalness was disarming, a little confusing.

“You certainly did seem provocative,” he confessed, “but I ought to have remembered.”

“You are very stupid,” she sighed.  “I deliberately invited your embrace.  Your withholding it would simply have added to my humiliation.  I am furious with myself, simply because, although I have lived a great part of my life with men, on equal terms with them, working with them, playing with them, seeing more of them at all times than of my own sex, such a thing has never happened to me before.”

“I felt that,” he said simply.

For a moment her face shone.  There was a look of gratitude in her eyes.  Her impulsive grasp of his hand left his fingers tingling.

“I am glad that you understood,” she murmured.  “Perhaps that will help me just a little.  For the rest, if you wish to be very kind, you will forget.”

“If I cannot do that,” he promised, “I will at least turn the key upon my memories.”

“Do more than that,” she begged.  “Throw the key into the sea, or whatever oblivion you choose to conjure up.  Moments such as those have no place in my life.  There is one purpose there more intense than anything else, that very purpose which by some grim irony of fate it seems to be within your power to destroy.”

He remained silent.  Ordinary expressions of regret seemed too inadequate.  Besides, the charm of the moment was passing.  The other side of her was reasserting itself.

“I suppose,” she went on, a little drearily, “that even if I told you upon my honour, of my certain knowledge, that the due delivery of that packet might save the lives of thousands of your countrymen, might save hearts from breaking, homes from becoming destitute—­even if I told you all this, would it help me in my prayer?”

“Nothing could help you,” he assured her, “but your whole confidence, and even then I fear that the result would be the same.”

“Oh, but you are very hard!” she murmured.  “My confidence belongs to others.  It is not mine alone to give you.”

“You see,” he explained, “I know beforehand that you are speaking the truth as you see it.  I know beforehand that any scheme in which you are engaged is for the benefit of our fellow creatures and not for their harm.  But alas! you make yourself the judge of these things, and there are times when individual effort is the most dangerous thing in life.”

“If you were any one else!” she sighed.

“Why be prejudiced about me?” he protested.  “Believe me, I am not a frivolous person.  I, too, think of life and its problems.  You yourself are an aristocrat.  Why should not I as well as you have sympathy and feeling for those who suffer?”

“I am a Russian,” she reminded him, “and in Russia it is different.  Besides, I am no longer an aristocrat.  I am a citizeness of the world.  I have eschewed everything in life except one thing, and for that I have worked with all my heart and strength.  As for you, what have you done?  What is your record?”