“I was destined for what I still regard as the most agreeable career in the world—­that of diplomacy.  You see how I speak English?  Well, Madame, I speak German and Spanish equally well.  And then, most unhappily for me, my beloved mother died, and I inherited from her a few thousand pounds.  I felt very miserable, and I happened to be at the moment idle.  A friend persuaded me to go to Monte Carlo.  That fortnight, Madame, changed my life—­made me what the English call ‘an idle good-for-nothing.’  Can you wonder that I warn you against staying at Lacville?”

Sylvia was touched, as well as surprised, by his confidences.  His words breathed sincerity, and the look of humiliation and pain on his face had deepened.  He looked white and drawn.

“It is very kind of you to tell me this, and I am very much obliged to you for your warning,” she said in a low tone.

But the Comte de Virieu went on as if he hardly heard her words.

“The lady with whom you first came to Lacville—­I mean the Polish lady—­is well known to me by sight.  For the last three years I have seen her at Monte Carlo in the winter, and at Spa and Aix-les-Bains in the summer.  Of course I was not at all surprised to see her turn up here, but I confess, Madame, that I was very much astonished to see with her a”—­he hesitated a moment—­“a young English lady.  You would, perhaps, be offended if I were to tell you exactly what I felt when I saw you at the Casino!”

“I do not suppose I should be offended,” said Sylvia softly.

“I felt, Madame, as if I saw a lily growing in a field of high, rank, evil-smelling—­nay, perhaps I should say, poisonous—­weeds.”

“But I cannot go away now!” cried Sylvia.  She was really impressed—­very uncomfortably impressed—­by his earnest words.  “It would be most unkind to my friend, Madame Wolsky.  Surely, it is possible to stay at Lacville, and even to play a little, without anything very terrible happening?” She looked at him coaxingly, anxiously, as a child might have done.

But Sylvia was not a child; she was a very lovely young woman.  Comte Paul de Virieu’s heart began to beat.

But, bah!  This was absurd!  His day of love and love-making lay far, far behind him.  He rose and walked towards the door.

In speaking to her as he had forced himself to speak, the Frenchman had done an unselfish and kindly action.  Sylvia’s gentle and unsophisticated charm had touched him deeply, and so he had given her what he knew to be the best possible advice.

“I am not so foolish as to pretend that the people who come and play in the Casino of Lacville are all confirmed gamblers,” he said, slowly.  “We French take our pleasures lightly, Madame, and no doubt there is many an excellent Parisian bourgeois who comes here and makes or loses his few francs, and gets no harm from it.  But, still, I swore to myself that I would warn you of the danger—­”