“I mean what I say,” declared Sylvie, “Miraudin used to be the darling of all the sentimental old maids and little school-girls who did not know him off the stage.  In Paris, in Rome, in Vienna, in Buda-Pesth—­always a conqueror of ignorant women who saw him in his beautiful ‘make-up’!  Yes, he was perfectly delightful,—­this big Miraudin, till he became his own manager and his own leading actor as well!  Helas!  What it is to be a manager!  Do you know?  It is to keep a harem like a grand Turk;—­and woe betide the woman who joins the company without understanding that she is to be one of the many!  The sultana is the ‘leading lady’.  Poor Miraudin!—­he must have many little faggots to feed his flame!  Oh, you look so shocked!  But the Marquis is just like him,—­he also stage-manages.”

“In what way?”

“Ah, he has an enormous theatre,—­the world!  A big stage,—­society!  The harem is always being replenished!  And he plays his part so well!  He has what the wise-acrescall ’perverted morals’,—­they are so charming!—­and he will not marry.  He says, ’Why give myself to one when I can make so many happy!’ And why will not I, Sylvie Hermenstein, be one of those many?  Why will I not yield to the embraces of Monsieur le beau Marquis?  Not to marry him,—­oh, no! so free a bird could not have his wings clipped!  And why will I not see the force of this?—­”

She stopped, for Angela sprang towards her exclaiming,

“Sylvie!  Do you mean to tell me that the Marquis Fontenelle is such a villain?—­”

“Tais-toi!  Dear little flame of genius, how you blaze!” cried Sylvie, catching her friend by the hand and kissing it, “Do not call Fontenelle a villain—­he is too charming!—­and he is only like a great many other men.  He is a bold and passionate person; I rather like such characters,—­and I really am afraid—­afraid—­” here she hesitated, then resumed, “He loves me for the moment, Angela, and I--I very much fear I love him for a little longer than that!  C’est terrible!  He is by no means worthy of it,—­no, but what does that matter!  We women never count the cost of loving—­we simply love!  If I see much of him I shall probably sink into the Quartier Latin of love—­for there is a Quartier Latin as well as a high class Faubourg in the passion,—­I prefer the Faubourg I confess, because it is so high, and respectable, and clean, and grand—­but—­”

“Sylvie,” said Angela determinedly, “You must come away from Paris,- -you must not see this man—­”

“That is what I have arranged to do,” said Sylvie, her beautiful violet eyes flashing with mirth and malice intermingled, “I am flying from Paris . . .  I shall perhaps go to Rome in order to be near you.  You are a living safety in a storm,—­you are so serene and calm.  And then you have a lover who believes in the ideal and perfect sympathy.”

Angela smiled,—­and Sylvie Hermenstein noted the warm and tender flush of pleasure that spread over her fair face.