“But I am becoming quite tragic in my remarks,” went on Sylvie, resuming her usual gaiety, “Melodramatic, as they say!  If I go on in this manner I shall qualify to be the next ‘leading lady’ to Miraudin!  Quelle honneur!  Good-bye Angela;—­I will not tell you where I am going lest Fontenelle should ask you,—­and then you would have to commit yourself to a falsehood,—­it is enough to say I have left Paris.”

“Shall I see you again soon?” said Angela, holding her by both hands and looking at her anxiously.

“Yes, very soon, before the winter is over at any rate.  You sweet, calm, happy Angela!  I wonder if anything could ever whip you in a storm!”

“Would you like to see me in a stormy humour?” asked Angela, smiling.

“No, not exactly;—­but,—­you are too quiet,—­too secure—­too satisfied in your art and your surroundings; and you do not enter at all into the passions and griefs of other people.  You are absorbed in your love and your work,—­a beautiful existence!  Only I hope the gods will not wake you up some day!”

“I am not asleep,” said Angela, “nor dreaming.”

“Yes you are!  You dream of beautiful things,—­and the world is full of ugly ones; you dream of love and constancy, and purity,—­and the world is full of spite, and hate, and bribery, and wickedness; you have a world of your own,—­but Angela, it is a glass world!—­in which only the exquisite colours of your own soul are reflected, take care that the pretty globe does not break!—­for if it does you will never be able to put it together again!  Adieu!”

“Adieu!” and Angela returned her loving embrace with equal affection, “I will announce your departure to the Marquis Fontenelle to-morrow.”

“You will?  Sweet Angela!  And when you hear from me, and know where I am, you will write me a long, long letter and tell me how he looked, and what he said, and whether he seemed sorry or indifferent, or angry, or ashamed—­or—­”

Before she could finish the sentence the studio door was thrown open, and the servant announced, “Monsieur le Marquis Fontenelle!”

XII.

A moment’s flashing glance of half-amused dismay at Angela, and the Comtesse Sylvie had vanished.  Passing quickly behind one of the several tall tapestry screens that adorned the studio, she slipped away through a little private door at which Angela’s “models” presented themselves, a door which led into the garden and then into the Bois, and making straight for her carriage which was in waiting round the corner, she sprang into it and was rapidly driven away.  Meanwhile, Angela Sovrani, rather bewildered by her friend’s swift departure, was left alone to face the Marquis, who entered almost on the heels of the servant who announced him, and in one swift survey of the studio saw that the object of his search was not there.  Concealing his disappointment, however, under an admirable show of elegant indifference, he advanced towards Angela and saluted her with a courtly old-world grace that very well became his handsome face and figure.