"I have not many friends," she returned frankly, "but I have one who would be adequate. I cannot tell whether I can bring myself to--I mean I cannot tell whether he could go; he has duties. It is asking much to ask any man to set out into Morocco on such an errand. However, I must think of it; I could at all events send for him and tell him of my husband--" M. Fournier interposed quickly: "He knows nothing of Ralph Warriner?" "He believes my husband dead." "Then why should he not continue to believe your husband dead?" asked Fournier, with a sly cunning. "It is Mr. Jeremy Bentham he goes out to find,--a friend of yours--a relation perhaps--is it not so? We can keep Ralph Warriner dead for a while longer." The little man's intention was becoming obvious. "Why?" asked Miranda, sharply. "It would be more prudent." "I don't understand." Her voice was cold and dangerous. "A man has one friend, a woman many," explained M. Fournier; "but there are compensations for the man in that his friend will serve him for friendship's sake. But a man will not serve a woman for friendship's sake. Not if he serve her well." M. Fournier was prepared for an outburst of indignation; he was not prepared for the expression which came over Miranda's face, and he could not understand it. She looked at him fixedly and, as it seemed, in consternation. "That is not true," she said; "it is not true. Surely, surely it cannot be true." M. Fournier made no answer. She turned away from him and walked along the flagged pathway, turned at the end and came slowly back. "A man will only serve a woman if he cares for her?" M. Fournier bowed. "And men can be made to care?" M. Fournier smiled. "But it needs time?" M. Fournier shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. "And it needs tricks?" M. Fournier made a pun. "Nature, Madame, has put the tricks in your hand." Miranda nodded her head once or twice, and made a remark which M. Fournier was at a loss to apply. "The old question," said she, "and the old answer;" and at once an irrational anger flamed up within her, anger with M. Fournier for posing the question again, anger with herself for her perplexity, anger even against Charnock, because he did not magically appear in the garden and answer the question and dissolve her perplexity. But M. Fournier alone was in the garden with her, and the full force of her anger broke upon him. "I am to throw out my net," she cried, "and catch my friend! I am to trick him, to lie to him, and to earn with the lie the use of his life and his brains and his time and his manhood. How dare you come to me with such a thought? A coward's thought indeed!" "The thought of a man who loves his friend," said M. Fournier, stubbornly; and he continued without any sarcasm: "Your sentiments, Madame Warriner, are most correct; they do you honour, but I love my friend."