“You arranged well,” said Angela, inclined to laugh at his easy audacity, “but le bon Dieu was evidently not of your opinion,—­and you must remember that the most excellent arrangements are not always carried out.”

“True!” and Fontenelle smiled, “In the case of the fascinating Sylvie, I do not know when I have had so much trouble about a woman.  It is interesting, but vexatious.  Sometimes I think I shall have to give up and gallop off the hunting-field altogether—­”

“Excuse me, Marquis,” said Angela coldly, “Sylvie Hermenstein is my friend—­pray understand that I cannot allow her to be spoken of in the tone of badinage you are pleased to assume.”

He looked up with a curious air of surprise and mock penitence.

“Pardon!  But there is no badinage at all about the very serious position in which I find myself,” he said, “You, mademoiselle, as a woman, have not the slightest idea of the anxiety and trouble your charming sex gives to ours.  That is, of course, when you are charming—­which is not always.  Now Sylvie, your friend Sylvie—­is so distinctly charming that she becomes provoking and irritating.  I am sure she has told you I am a terrible villain . . .”

“She has never said so,—­never spoken one word against you!” interposed Angela.

“No?  That is curious—­very curious!  But then Sylvie is curious.  You see the position is this;—­I wish to give her all I am worth in the world, but she will not have it,—­I wish to love her, but she will not be loved—­”

“Perhaps,” said Angela, gaining courage to speak plainly, “Perhaps your love is not linked with honour?”

“Honour?” echoed the Marquis, lifting his finely arched eyebrows, “You mean marriage?  No—­I confess I am not guilty of so much impudence.  For why should the brilliant Sylvie become the Marquise Fontenelle?  It would be a most unhappy fate for her, because if there were a Marquise Fontenelle, my principles would oblige me to detest her!”

“You would detest your own wife!” said Angela surprised.

“Naturally!  It is the fashion.  To love one’s wife would be petite bourgoisie—­nothing more absurd!  It is the height of good form to neglect one’s wife and adore one’s mistress,—­the arrangement works perfectly and keeps a man well balanced,—­perpetual complaint on one side, perpetual delight on the other.”

He laughed, and his eyes twinkled satirically.

“Are you serious?” asked Angela.

“I never was more serious in my life,” declared the Marquis emphatically, “With all my heart I wish to make the delicious pink and white Sylvie happy,—­I am sure I could succeed in my way.  If I should ever allow myself to do such a dull thing as to marry,—­ imagine it!—­such a dull and altogether prosy thing!—­my gardener did it yesterday;—­I should of course choose a person with a knowledge of housekeeping and small details,—­her happiness it would be quite unnecessary to consider.  The maintenance