Madame Wolsky, though generally so undemonstrative, took Sylvia in her arms and kissed her.

“God bless you, my dear little friend!” she whispered, “and forgive all I have said to you to-night!  Still, think the matter over.  I have lived a great deal of my life in this country.  I am almost a Frenchwoman.  It is no use marrying a Frenchman unless his family marry you too—­and I understand that the Comte de Virieu’s family have cast him off.”

Sylvia got into the carriage and looked back, her eyes blinded with tears.

Anna Wolsky stood in the doorway of the Pension, her tall, thin figure in sharp silhouette against the lighted hall.

“We will meet the day after to-morrow, is that not so?” she cried out.

And Sylvia nodded.  As she drove away, she told herself that whatever happened she would always remain faithful to her affection for Anna Wolsky.

CHAPTER XIII

The next morning found Paul de Virieu walking up and down platform No. 9 of the Gare du Nord, waiting for Mrs. Bailey’s train, which was due to arrive from Lacville at eleven o’clock.

Though he looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world save the pleasant care of enjoying the present and looking forward to the future, life was very grey just now to the young Frenchman.

To a Parisian, Paris in hot weather is a depressing place, even under the pleasantest of circumstances, and the Count felt an alien and an outcast in the city where he had spent much of his careless and happy youth.

His sister, the Duchesse d’Eglemont, who had journeyed all the way from Brittany to see him for two or three days, had received him with that touch of painful affection which the kindly and the prosperous so often bestow on those whom they feel to be at once beloved and prodigal.

When with his dear Marie-Anne, Paul de Virieu always felt as though he had been condemned to be guillotined, and as if she were doing everything to make his last days on earth as pleasant as possible.

When he had proposed that his sister should ask his new friend, this English widow he had met at Lacville, to luncheon—­nay more, when he had asked Marie-Anne to lend Mrs. Bailey a riding habit, and to arrange that one of the Duc’s horses should come over every morning in order that he and Mrs. Bailey might ride together—­the kind Duchesse had at once assented, almost too eagerly, to his requests.  And she had asked her brother no tiresome, indiscreet questions as to his relations with the young Englishwoman,—­whether, for instance, he was really fond of Sylvia, whether it was conceivably possible that he was thinking of marrying her?

And, truth to tell, Paul de Virieu would have found it very difficult to give an honest answer to the question.  He was in a strange, debatable state of mind about Sylvia—­beautiful, simple, unsophisticated Sylvia Bailey.