“Now there are tears in your eyes, Sylvie,” she said, “You are suffering for this man’s heartlessness and cruelty.  For it is heartless,—­it is insulting, and selfish, and cruel to offer you nothing but dishonour if he knows you love him.”

Sylvie took out a tiny cobweb of a lace handkerchief and dried her tears.

“No, I will not have him called heartless, or cruel,” she said, “He is merely one of his class.  There are hundreds like him in Paris.  Never mind my tears!—­they are nothing.  There are hundreds of women who would accept his proposals,—­and he thinks I must be like them,- -ready to fall into his arms like a ripe peach at a touch!  He thinks all I say to him is an assumed affectation of virtue, and that he can easily break down that slight barricade.  He tells me I am a charming preacher, but that he could never learn anything from sermons!” She laughed, “Oh, he is incorrigible!  But I want you to let him know that for once he is mistaken.  Will you?  And you shall not have to say even the smallest figment of an untruth,—­your news will be quite correct—­for I leave Paris to-morrow morning.”

She was very quiet now as she spoke—­her brilliant eyes were dark with thought, and her delicate face wore a serious, almost melancholy expression.

“Dear Sylvie!” said Angela, kissing her soft cheek, “You really care for this wretched man?”

“I am not sure,” she answered with a touch of hesitation in her voice, “I think I do—­and yet despise myself for it!—­but—­who knows what wonders change of air and scene may work!  You see, if I go away he will forget at once, and will trouble himself about me no more.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Sylvie hesitated.

“Well, no, I cannot be quite certain,—­you see no woman has ever avoided him,—­it will be quite a new experience for him, and a strange one!” Her laughter rippled out musically on the air.  “Positively I do not think he will ever get over it!”

“I begin to understand,” said Angela, “You wish to make this callous man of the world realise that a woman may be beautiful, and brilliant, and independent, and yet live a pure, good life amid numerous temptations?”

“Yes,—­I wish him to feel that all women are not to be led away by flattery, or even by the desire to be loved, which is the hardest temptation of all to resist!  Nothing so hard as that, Angela!  Nothing so hard!  I have often thought what a contemptible creature Goethe’s Gretchen was to allow herself to be tempted to ruin with a box of jewels!  Jewels!  Worthless baubles!  I would not cross the road to look at the biggest diamond in the world!  But to be loved!  To feel that you are all in all to one man out of the whole world!  That would be glorious!  That I have never felt—­that I shall never know!”

Angela looked at her sympathetically,—­what a strange thing it was, she thought, that this pretty creature, with her winsome, bright, bewitching ways, should be craving for love, while she, Angela Sovrani, was elected to the happiness of having the absolute devotion of such an ideal lover as Florian Varillo!