“Value for value only, Madam!  Will you tell me in turn of yourself?”

“All?” She looked at me curiously.

“Only so much as Madam wishes.”

I saw her dark eyes study me once more.  At last she spoke again.  “At least,” she said, “it would be rather vulgar if I did not explain some of the things which become your right to know when I ask you to come into this home, as into my other home in Washington.”

“In Heaven’s name, how many of these homes have you, then?  Are they all alike?”

“Five only, now,” she replied, in the most matter-of-fact manner in the world, “and, of course, all quite alike.”

“Where else?”

“In Paris, in Vienna, in London,” she answered.  “You see this one, you see them all.  ’Tis far cooler in Montreal than in Washington in the summer time.  Do you not approve?”

“The arrangement could not be surpassed.”

“Thank you.  So I have thought.  The mere charm of difference does not appeal to me.  Certain things my judgment approves.  They serve, they suffice.  This little scheme it has pleased me to reproduce in some of the capitals of the world.  It is at least as well chosen as the taste of the Prince of Orleans, son of Louis Philippe, could advise.”

This with no change of expression.  I drew a long breath.

She went on as though I had spoken.  “My friend,” she said, “do not despise me too early.  There is abundant time.  Before you judge, let the testimony be heard.  I love men who can keep their own tongues and their own hands to themselves.”

“I am not your judge, Madam, but it will be long before I shall think a harsh thought of you.  Tell me what a woman may.  Do not tell me what a secret agent may not.  I ask no promises and make none.  You are very beautiful.  You have wealth.  I call you `Madam.’  You are married?”

“I was married at fifteen.”

“At fifteen!  And your husband died?”

“He disappeared.”

“Your own country was Austria?”

“Call me anything but Austrian!  I left my country because I saw there only oppression and lack of hope.  No, I am Hungarian.”

“That I could have guessed.  They say the most beautiful women of the world come from that country.”

“Thank you.  Is that all?”

“I should guess then perhaps you went to Paris?”

“Of course,” she said, “of course! of course!  In time reasons existed why I should not return to my home.  I had some little fortune, some singular experiences, some ambitions of my own.  What I did, I did.  At least, I saw the best and worst of Europe.”

She raised a hand as though to brush something from before her face.  “Allow me to give you wine.  Well, then, Monsieur knows that when I left Paris I felt that part of my studies were complete.  I had seen a little more of government, a little more of humanity, a little more of life, a little more of men.  It was not men but mankind that I studied most.  I had seen much of injustice and hopelessness and despair.  These made the fate of mankind—­in that world.”