“I was not thinking of the money,” said Anna Wolsky slowly.

Sylvia made a restless movement, and took her hand out of Anna’s affectionate clasp.

“I’m afraid that you are becoming very fond of the Comte de Virieu,” went on Anna, in a low voice but very deliberately.  “You must forgive me, Sylvia, but I am older than you are.  Have you thought of the consequences of this friendship of yours?  I confess that at the beginning I credited that man with the worst of motives, but now I feel afraid that he is in love—­in fact I feel sure that he is madly in love with you.  Do you know that he never takes his eyes off you in the Club?  Often he forgets to pick up his winnings....”

Sylvia’s heart began to beat.  She wondered if Anna was indeed telling the truth.  She almost bent forward and kissed her friend in her gratitude—­but all she said was, and that defiantly,

“You can believe me when I say that he has never said a word of love to me.  He has never even flirted with me.  I give you my word that that is so!”

“Ah, but it is just that fact that makes me believe that he cares.  Flirtation is an English art, not a French art, my dear Sylvia.  A Frenchman either loves—­and when he loves he adores on his knees—­or else he has no use, no use at all, for what English people mean by flirtation—­the make-believe of love!  I should feel much more at ease if the Count had insulted you—­”

“Anna!”

“Yes, indeed!  I am quite serious.  I fear he loves you.”

And as Sylvia gave a long, involuntary, happy sigh, Anna went on:  “Of course, I do not regard him with trust or with liking.  How could I?  On the other hand, I do not go as far as the Wachners; they, it is quite clear, evidently know something very much to the Count’s discredit.”

“I don’t believe they do!” cried Sylvia, hotly.  “It is mere prejudice on their part!  He does not like them, and they know it.  He thinks them vulgar sort of people, and he suspects that Monsieur Wachner is German—­that is quite enough for him.”

“But, after all, it does not really matter what the Wachners think of the Comte de Virieu, or what he thinks of them,” said Anna.  “What matters is what you think of him, and what he thinks of you.”

Sylvia was glad that the darkness hid her deep, burning blushes from Anna Wolsky.

“You do not realise,” said the Polish lady, gravely, “what your life would be if you were married to a man whose only interest in life is play.  Mind you, I do not say that a gambler does not make a kind husband.  We have an example”—­she smiled a little—­“in this Monsieur Wachner.  He is certainly very fond of his wife, and she is very fond of him.  But would you like your husband always to prefer his vice to you?”

Sylvia made no answer.