“—­but, viewed from the standpoint, of our diplomacy, the matter here is simple.  Last week, at the reception where the representatives of Austria were present this woman appeared, properly introduced, properly invited, it is true, but wholly unwelcome socially, in certain quarters.  The attache and his wife left the roof, and made plain to their host their reasons for doing so.”

“Yes, and it was public shame that they should take such action.  The woman had the right of her host’s protection, for she was there by invitation!” Thus the bony man in the shadows.

Again the leader rapped on the table.  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he began, not wholly humorously.  “Let us have a care.  Let us at least not divide into factions here.  We all of us, I trust, can remember the case of Peggy O’Neil, who split Washington asunder not so long ago.  She was the wife of one of President Jackson’s cabinet members, yet when she appeared upon a ball-room floor, all the ladies left it.  It was Jackson and Eaton against the world.  That same situation to-day, granted certain conditions, might mean a war which would disrupt this Union.  In fact, I consider Josephine St. Auban to-day more dangerous than Mrs. Eaton at her worst.”

“But we have just heard what rights we have before the law, sir,” ventured a hesitating, drawling voice, which had earlier been heard.  “How can we take cognizance of private insult given by a foreign power in only quasi-public capacity?  I conceive it to be somewhat difficult, no matter what the reception in the society of Washington, to eject this woman from the city of Washington itself; or at least, very likely difficult to keep her ejected, as you say, sir.”

“Where should she go?” demanded yet another voice.  “And why should she not come back?”

Impatiently, the leader replied:  “Where?  I do not know.  I do not want to know.  I must not know!  Good God, must we not bear ourselves in mind?”

“Then, sir, in case of her sudden return, you ask an agent?” said a keen, clear, and incisive voice, which had not yet been heard.  “Gentlemen, shall we cast lots for the honor of watching the Countess St. Auban in case of her undesired return?”

The grim demand brought out a hasty protest from a timid soul:  “To that, I would not agree.”  A sort of shuffle, a stir, a shifting in seats seemed to take place all about the table.

“Very well, then,” went on the clear voice, “let us employ euphemism in terms and softness in methods.  If we may not again kidnap the lady, why may we not bribe her?”

“It could not be done,” broke in the dark man toward the head of the table.  “If I know the facts, this woman could not be bought for any ransom.  She has both station and wealth accorded her, so the story goes, for some service of her family in the affairs of France.  But she will none of monarchies.  She turned democrat, revolutionist, in France, and on the hotter stage of Hungary—­and so finally sought this new world to conquer.  She is no artless miss, but a woman of the world, brilliant and daring, with ideas of her own about a world-democracy.  She is perhaps devout, or penitent!”