he
Foreign Office. But then, of course, he is really quite out of place in
diplomacy. Since he can't exist on a marble pedestal or some Old
Master's canvas, he ought at least to be a poet or an artist--and so he
is at heart; not one, but both; and a dreamer of beautiful dreams, as
beautiful and noble as his own clear-cut face, which might be cold if it
were not for the eyes, and lips.

There were people about, and we spoke like mere acquaintances until I'd
led Raoul into the little boudoir which adjoins my dressing-room.
Then--well, we spoke no longer like mere acquaintances. That is enough
to say. And we had five minutes together, before I was obliged to send
him away, and go to dress for the second act.

The touch of Raoul's hands, and those lips of his that are not cold,
gave me strength to go through all that was yet to come. There's
something almost magical in the touch--just a little, little touch--of
the one we love best. For a moment we can forget everything else, even
if it were death itself waiting just round the corner. I've flirted with
more than one man, sometimes because I liked him and it amused me,--as
with Ivor Dundas,--sometimes because I had to win him for politic
reasons. But I never knew that blessed feeling until I met Raoul du
Laurier. It was a heavenly rest now to lay my head for a minute on his
shoulder, just shutting my eyes, without speaking a word.

I thought--for I was worn out, body and soul, with the strain of keeping
up and hiding my secret--that when I was dead the best paradise would be
to lean so on Raoul's shoulder, never moving, for the first two or three
hundred years of eternity. But as the peaceful fancy cooled my brain,
back darted remembrance, like a poisonous snake. I reminded myself how
little I deserved such a paradise, and how my lover's dear arms would
put me away, in a kind of unbelieving horror, if he knew what I had
done, and how I had betrayed his trust in me.

For ten years I'd been a political spy--yes. But I owed a grudge to
Russia, which I'd promised my father to pay: and France is Russia's
ally. Besides, it seems less vile to betray a country than to deceive a
man you adore, who adores you in return. We women are true as truth
itself to those we love. For them we would sacrifice the greatest cause.
Always I had known this, and I had thought that I could prove myself
truer than the truest, if I ever loved. Yet now I had betrayed my lover
and sold his country; an