. . .
What was most amusing was the cool, reasonable tone of this amazing
project. Mr. Blunt sat by very detached, his eyes roamed here and
there all over the cafe; and it was while looking upward at the
pink foot of a fleshy and very much foreshortened goddess of some
sort depicted on the ceiling in an enormous composition in the
Italian style that he let fall casually the words, "She will manage
it for you quite easily."
"Every Carlist agent in Bayonne assured me of that," said Mr.
Mills. "I would have gone straight to Paris only I was told she
had fled here for a rest; tired, discontented. Not a very
encouraging report."
"These flights are well known," muttered Mr. Blunt. "You shall see
her all right."
"Yes. They told me that you . . . "
I broke in: "You mean to say that you expect a woman to arrange
that sort of thing for you?"
"A trifle, for her," Mr. Blunt remarked indifferently. "At that
sort of thing women are best. They have less scruples."
"More audacity," interjected Mr. Mills almost in a whisper.
Mr. Blunt kept quiet for a moment, then: "You see," he addressed
me in a most refined tone, "a mere man may suddenly find himself
being kicked down the stairs.
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