The old Marquise beckoned to Count Paul, and together they slowly walked through into the garden and paced away down a shaded alley.  For the first time Sylvia and Marie-Anne d’Eglemont were alone together.

“I wish to thank you for your kindness to my poor Paul,” the Duchesse spoke in a low, hesitating voice.  “You have so much influence over him, Madame.”

Sylvia shook her head.

“Ah!  But yes, you have!” She looked imploringly at Sylvia.  “You know what I mean?  You know what I would ask you to do?  My husband could give Paul work in the country, work he would love, for he adores horses, if only he could be rescued from this terrible infatuation, this passion for play.”

She stopped abruptly, for the Count and his little, fairy-like godmother had turned round, and were now coming towards them.

Sylvia rose instinctively to her feet, for the tiny Marquise was very imposing.

“Sit down, Madame,” she said imperiously, and Sylvia meekly obeyed.

The old lady fixed her eyes with an appraising gaze on her godson’s English friend.

“Permit me to embrace you,” she exclaimed suddenly.  “You are a very pretty creature!  And though no doubt young lips often tell you this, the compliments of the old have the merit of being quite sincere!”

She bent down, and Sylvia, to her confusion and surprise, felt her cheeks lightly kissed by the withered lips of Paul de Virieu’s godmother.

“Madame Bailey’s rouge is natural; it does not come off!” the old lady exclaimed, and a smile crept over her parchment-coloured face.  “Not but what a great deal of nonsense is talked about the usage of rouge, my dear children!  There is no harm in supplementing the niggardly gifts of nature.  You, for instance, Marie-Anne, would look all the better for a little rouge!” She spoke in a high, quavering voice.

The Duchesse smiled.  Her brother had always been the old Marquise’s favourite.

“But I should feel so ashamed if it came off,” she said lightly; “if, for instance, I felt one of my cheeks growing pale while the other remained bright red?”

“That would never happen if you used what I have often told you is the only rouge a lady should use, that is, the sap of the geranium blossom—­that gives an absolutely natural tint to the skin, and my own dear mother always used it.  You remember how Louis XVIII. complimented her on her beautiful complexion at the first Royal ball held after the Restoration?  Well, the Sovereign’s gracious words were entirely owing to the geranium blossom!”

CHAPTER XIV

The day after her memorable expedition to Paris opened pleasantly for Sylvia Bailey, though it was odd how dull and lifeless the Villa du Lac seemed to be without Count Paul.

But he would be back to-morrow, and in the morning of the next day they were to begin riding together.