"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." "I have heard vaguely of some such things, Madam," I said. "I know that in Europe they have still the fight which we sought to settle when we left that country for this one." She nodded. "So then, at last," she went on, "still young, having learned something and having now those means of carrying on my studies which I required, I came to this last of the countries, America, where, if anywhere, hope for mankind remains. Washington has impressed me more than any capital of the world." "How long have you been in Washington?" I asked. "Now you begin to question--now you show at last curiosity! Well, then, I shall answer. For more than one year, perhaps more than two, perhaps more than three!" "Impossible!" I shook my head. "A woman like you could not be concealed--not if she owned a hundred hidden places such as this." "Oh, I was known," she said. "You have heard of me, you knew of me?" I still shook my head. "No," said I, "I have been far in the West for several years, and have come to Washington but rarely. Bear me out, I had not been there my third day before I found you!" We sat silent for some moments, fixedly regarding each other. I have said that a more beautiful face than hers I had never seen. There sat upon it now many things--youth, eagerness, ambition, a certain defiance; but, above all, a pleading pathos! I could not find it in my heart, eager as I was, to question her further. Apparently she valued this reticence.