"You see, Britten," she said, presently, "a woman is of her husband's nationality, and so, of course, I am a Hungarian. That is why the Emperor has the power to say that I must not be admitted to Monte Carlo just at the moment when my dear husband is waiting for me there. Now, don't you think it is very hard upon us both?" "It's very hard on him, madame, seeing you are in the case. I should want to know him before I said the same thing for you, asking your pardon for the liberty." She took no notice of this, but casting up her eyes to heaven--and at that game Miss Sarah Bernhardt out of Paris couldn't beat her--she exclaimed: "Oh, my poor Joseph, whatever will he think of me? I dare not contemplate it, Britten--I really dare not." "Then I should leave it alone, madame. Is there no way of getting this decision altered?" "None that I can think of, unless----" "Unless what, madame?" She tapped the table with her pretty fingers, and poured me out a second glass of port wine. "Unless the mountain will come to Mahomet--but I guess you don't know what that means, Britten, now do you?" She screwed her lips up to the kissing point with this, and looked at me so tenderly that I began to feel nervous--upon my word I did. "Do you mean that your husband must come here, madame?" "Of course I mean it, Britten. You must fetch him--by a trick. Now wouldn't that be splendid--say, wouldn't it be fine? If we could outwit them--if we could make the Emperor look foolish!" I rubbed my chin and thought about it. There isn't much modesty in my profession, but the idea of getting up against a policeman so far from my humble home somehow put the brake on, and I found myself misfiring like one o'clock in spite of her pretty eyes and her red lips, and her "take me in your arms and kiss me" look. The Croydon lot are bad enough, but as for the beaks at Montey--well, I've heard tales of them and to spare. "It would be fine, madame, if we could do it," said I at last; "but between talking of it here in this hotel and crossing the frontier----" "Oh," she cried, interrupting me almost angrily--and she has the devil of a temper--"oh, there's no difficulty, Britten. Just drive to the Hermitage after my husband has dined to-morrow night, and say that if he wants the news of Madame Clara, you can take him where he will get it. Don't you see, Clara is one of my pet names. He'll understand in a moment, and you can drive him to this hotel. Are you afraid to do that, Britten?"