Given such an audience, my outward mien must be impeccable.

“There is something,” I admitted cautiously, “that I want to say to you.  But I wish you would eat something first.  People are watching us,” I added beneath my breath as the soup appeared.

She took a sip under protest, and then replaced her spoon and sat with fingers twisting her gloves and eyes fixed smolderingly on mine.  I shifted furtively in my seat.  This was a charming experience.  I was being, from my point of view, almost quixotically generous; yet with one glance she could make me feel like a bully and a brute.

“I am sure,” I stumbled, fumbling desperately with my serviette, “that you came over without realizing what war conditions are.  Strangers aren’t wanted just now.  Travel is dangerous for women.  You may think me all kinds of a presumptuous idiot,—­I shan’t blame you,—­but I am going to urge you most strongly to go home.”

Whatever she had looked for, obviously it was not that.

“Mr. Bayne,” she exclaimed, regarding me wonderingly, “what do you mean?”

“Just this, Miss Falconer,” I answered with almost Teutonic ruthlessness.  Confound it!  I couldn’t sit here forever bullying her; sheer desperation lent me strength.  “The Espagne sails from Bordeaux on Saturday, I see by the Herald, and if I were you, I should most certainly be on board.  In fact, if you lose the chance, I am sure you’ll regret it later.  The French police authorities are—­er—­very inquisitive about foreigners; and if you stop in France in these anxious times, I think it likely that they may—­well—­”

She drew a quick, hard breath as I trailed off into silence.  Her eyes, darkened, horrified, were gazing full into mine.

“You wouldn’t tell them about me!  You couldn’t be so cruel!” The words came almost fiercely, yet with a sound like a stifled sob.

By its sheer preposterousness the speech left me dumb a moment, and then gave me back the self-possession I had been clutching at throughout the meal.  For the first time since entering I sat erect and squared my shoulders.  I even confronted her with a rather glittering smile.

“I am very sorry,” I said, with a cool stare, “if I appear so; but I am consideration itself compared with the people you would meet in Paris, say.  That’s the very point I’m making—­that you can’t travel now in comfort.  I’m simply trying to spare you future contretemps, Miss Falconer; such as I had on the Re d’Italia, you may recall.”

She leaned impulsively across the table.

“Oh, Mr. Bayne, I knew it!  You are angry about that wretched extra, and you have a right to be.  Of course you thought it cowardly of me—­yes, and ungrateful—­to stand there without a word and let those officers question you.  Mr. Bayne, if the worst had come to the worst, I should have spoken, I should, indeed; but I had to wait.  I had to give myself every chance.  It meant so much, so much!  You had nothing to hide from them.  You were certain to win through.  And then, you seemed so undisturbed, so unruffled, so able to take care of yourself; I knew you were not afraid.  It was different with me.  If they began to suspect, if they learned who I was, I could never have entered France.  This route through Italy was my one hope!  I am so sorry.  But still—­”