"Madame finds herself well?" he asked solicitously, but shivering
somewhat. "Madame is in the mood for further triumphs?"

Truda gave him a smile. Monsieur Vaucher was a careful engineer of
her successes, a withered little middle-aged Parisian, who had grown
up in the mechanical service of great singers and actors. There was
not a tone in his voice, not a gesture in his repertory, that was not
an affectation; and, with it all, she knew him for a man of sterling
loyalty and a certain simplicity of heart.

"We are on the point of arriving," went on Monsieur Vaucher. "I come
to tell Madame how the ground lies in this city. It is, you see, a
place vexed with various politics, an arena of trivialities. In other
words, Madame, the best place in the world for one who is--shall we
say?--detached."

Truda laughed, sipping her warm tea.

"Politics have never tempted me, my friend," she replied.

Monsieur Vaucher bowed complaisantly.

"Your discretion is frequently perfect," he said. "And if I suggest
that here is an occasion for a particular discretion, it is only
because I have Madame's interests at heart. Now, the chief matters of
dispute here are----"

Truda interrupted him. "Please!" she said. "It does not matter at
all. And think! Politics before breakfast. I am surprised at you,