will not laugh. I am ready. If monsieur will give me his word that he will pay ten thousand francs in a certain quarter so soon as he learns that M. le President is—no more, I will do what he requires."
When he spoke again Mr. Kennard's tone was even unwontedly dry.
"Am I to take it that mademoiselle is in earnest?"
She hesitated. Then with both her hands she raised her veil.
"If monsieur will look at me he will see I am in earnest"
What the two men did see was that she was scarcely out of her girlhood—surely not out of her teens. She was fairer than the average French woman. Her face was broad across the cheekbones; lower down it narrowed almost to a point at the chin; her eyes were big and serious—the eyes of a child; her pretty, tempting, grave little mouth was well matched with her eyes. As she said, one had but to look at her to see that she was in earnest—with the earnestness of a child.
"Monsieur"—in her voice there came now and then a throb which was in odd consonance with the pathos of her whole appearance—"I entreat you to believe that I am in earnest; I entreat you to believe that to me life is less than nothing, that all that is left me is to die. But I would have you to understand that I am so placed that, in dying, I would wish my death to be worth more than my life to—to those who may be left behind."
Tears were in her eyes. Mr. Kennard dashed across the room to her.
