When I went back to the boudoir I asked her why she burned everything up, even in hot weather. “Why don’t you have a wastebasket instead of a fireplace?” I asked. “I’ve always loathed the sight of a wastebasket,” she replied. “Besides the fireplace is handy and the ashes are so much less for the maid to carry out than papers would be....” “You’re very considerate of others, aren’t you?” I observed, placing my hands on her shoulders and leaning over for a kiss. “I’m too considerate sometimes,” she murmured into my ear. And she made that kiss speak worlds and worlds. Then she pushed me away and laughed, not too pleasantly, as she said, “Dammit, young one, you’re making me perfectly miserable!... Sometimes I wish Captain Winstead had wished you upon someone else.” “Would you rather I didn’t come?” I asked quickly, trying to sound very hurt. “God, no, honey!” she answered, and her voice was thrillingly vibrant. “I wish you would come and stay—and I mustn’t be wishing such things!” “Why not?” I inquired ingeniously. “They say if you wish hard enough, anything will come true.” She turned to me then and took my hand, saying, “Such wishing isn’t good for me.... And what I would wish could never possibly come true.” She turned back to the dressing table with a flourish and raised her voice to say, “Don’t bother me, now, little one. You know you get me all upset.... I think you derive some diabolical delight from tormenting me.” I laughed and let it go at that, and the rest of the afternoon and evening passed without anything further of great interest, although during the evening, when several of her friends dropped in to talk and drink, I caught her more than once studying me in an interested but detached sort of way. I really felt a little uncomfortable and began to wonder if she suspected anything, or if the maid had seen me stick that envelope down my breeches. Later, when I was about to leave, she asked me if I were never going to please her by staying there instead of traveling the long distance across the river to my barracks. “You’ll be leaving Paris some day soon, my dear, and perhaps we might never meet again—who can tell?” All I could do was squeeze her hand and blink my eyes. For the life of me, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She was really so sincere, and her position must have been anything but comfortable there in an enemy city. She was a spy, of course, but one couldn’t help but admire a woman as remarkable as she was. Nor could you blame her for being so brazen about a pleasure which she thought would be genuine—she dealt in counterfeit interest and love and passion so much that it seemed a shame that she could not consummate just once at least her desire for something she really wanted.