“Richard,” said the Count in some surprise, “you’re not asking me to spy on my country.” “What? Spy on your country? Absolutely not, Alexander. I like to think of it more as a form of cosmopolitan gossip. You know: who was invited to the dance and who showed up uninvited; who was holding hands in the corner; and who got hot under the collar. The typical topics of a Sunday morning breakfast anywhere in the world. And in exchange for these sorts of trifles, we could prove generous to a fault. . .
