And yet, with all this unstinted praise, with all this respectful admiration, there was not a man among them who would have exchanged places with Davenport Carstairs. Despite her beauty, her no uncertain charm of manner, her strangely old-fashioned femininity, no man coveted her. As a matter of fact, they were a little bit awed by Frieda Carstairs. The foreign ambassador was leaving early. He explained to his hostess that a very important conference was to be held that night in his rooms at the hotel. He was profoundly apologetic, but if she knew how much depended on the outcome of this very, _very_ important meeting,--and so on, and so on. She said she understood perfectly; affairs of state, she went on to say, always lead up to a state of affairs, and that, of course, was hopeless unless taken in time. He was a little bewildered. Fearing that she had not fully grasped his meaning, he proceeded to elaborate a little. It wasn't really a state of affairs, nor, for that matter, an affair of state. Time, of course,--yes, time was the essence of everything in these bitter days. She was quite right; the whole trouble with the Allies had been the wasting of time; now they realized the importance of doing things promptly. She said she was glad that they were not letting the grass grow under their feet. He mumbled something about winter and the nothing much growing outside the tropics, and floundered with further confidences. Leaning quite close to her he whispered something in her ear. It left her perfectly calm. “This, you understand, my dear madam, is not to be repeated,--strictly confidential,--absolutely--ah--on the quiet, as you say over here.” “I sha'n't even repeat it to my husband,” said she. The ambassador looked relieved. “I fear he would not approve of my mentioning a matter that he seems to have withheld from you himself.” She smiled. “Possess your soul in peace, my dear Ambassador. I am as good as he at keeping a secret.” “It is--ah--most imperative that this shouldn't--ah--get out, so to speak,” said he, wishing in his soul that he had not let it out himself. “You have spoken to the Sphinx,” said she gravely. She happened to glance down the table at this juncture. Something hypnotic drew her gaze directly to Captain Steele. He was regarding her steadily. There was a queer, intent look in his eyes. For an instant their gaze held, and then he looked away. She turned to speak to the man on her left. If he had been an observing person, he would have noticed the tired look that suddenly clouded her eyes,--briefly, fittingly, it is true, but remaining long enough to have been detected by one less absorbed in himself than he. No doubt his pride would have been hurt had he observed it.