Then I made my second dramatic play for confidence. I
suddenly stopped going to the Folies. I suppose it was rather
lonesome in Constantinople and a man who was not a Turk was a novelty.
One afternoon she sent for me and I was confronted with a human
situation which I must in this narrative of Secret Service operations
treat as impersonal though it is full of pathetic implications. I
found her with her luggage packed.
"Why haven't you come to the Folies lately?" she demanded with a
pretty air of bossing the situation.
I told her my work at the hospital had made heavy inroads upon my
time.
"Oh!" she began, tapping a little boot impatiently on the floor; after
a pause, "I have to leave for Paris. . . . Well?"
"That is most unfortunate."
"Is that all?"
"To say anything more would only be painful, Machere Cecelia."
"But there is no need of our being blue. Why not make the occasion a
happy one? Why not come along to Paris?"
She looked up at me with an impudent little smile.
"My dear little girl," I said, "I am no man of means and I cannot go
gadding about Europe. Besides, I have my work here. I will be busy
at the hospital for another month."
That seemed to displease her. She looked at me carefully,
unconsciously her manner changed. She became somewhat appraising. It
seemed as though a different woman was speaking,
"Franz," she said, "a man like you is wasting his time pottering
around a hospital with your evident knowledge of the world and people.
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