He swung suddenly round upon her and there was an unaccustomed fire in his eyes.

“May it not be for some other reason?” he asked quickly.

There was a moment’s silence.  Her own face seemed paler than ever in the strange half light, but her eyes were wonderful.  He told himself with passionate insistence that they were the eyes of a truthful woman.

“Tell me,” she begged, “what reason?”

He leaned towards her.

“It is so hopeless,” he said.  “I am just a broken diplomat whose career is ended almost before it is begun, and you—­well, you have everything at your feet.  It is foolish of me, isn’t it, but I love you.”

He took her hand, and she did not withdraw it.

“If it is foolish,” she murmured, “then I am foolish, too.  Perhaps you can guess now why I came to London.”

He drew her into his arms.  She made no resistance.  Her lips, even, were seeking his.  It seemed to him in those breathless moments that a greater thing than even the destiny of nations was born into the world.  There was a new vigour in his pulses as she gently pushed him back, a new splendour in life.

“Dear,” she exclaimed, “of course we are both very foolish, and yet, I do not know.  I have been wondering why this has not come to me long ago, and now that it has come I am happy.”

“You care—­you really care?” he insisted passionately.

“Of course I do,” she told him, quietly enough and yet very convincingly.  “If I did not care I should not be here.  If I did not care, I should not be going to say the things to you which I am going to say now.  Sit back in your chair, please, hold my hand still, smoke if you will, but listen.”

He obeyed.  A deeper seriousness crept into her tone, but her face was still soft and wonderful.  The new things were lingering there.

“I want to tell you first,” she said, “what I think you already know.  The moment for which Germany has toiled so long, from which she has never faltered, is very close at hand.  With all her marvellous resources and that amazing war equipment of which you in this country know little, she will soon throw down the gage to England.  You are an Englishman, Francis.  You are not going to forget it, are you?”

“Forget it?” he repeated.

“I know,” she continued slowly, “that Selingman has made advances to you.  I know that he has a devilish gift for enrolling on his list men of honour and conscience.  He has the knack of subtle argument, of twisting facts and preying upon human weaknesses.  You have been shockingly treated by your Foreign Office.  You yourself are entirely out of sympathy with your Government.  You know very well that England, as she is, is a country which has lost her ideals, a country in which many of her sons might indeed, without much reproach, lose their pride, Selingman knows this.  He knows how to work upon these facts.  He might very easily convince you that the truest service you could render your country was to assist her in passing through a temporary tribulation.”