of the establishment, the servants, and the ever increasing train of milliners and dressmakers would be enough to satisfy Madame la Marquise’s ambitions.  But for Sylvie,—­half-fairy, half-angel as she is,—­there must be poetry and moonlight, flowers, and romance, and music, and tender nothings,—­marriage does not consort with these delights.  If you were a little school-girl, dear Donna Sovrani, I should not talk to you in this way,—­it would not be proper,—­it would savour of Lord Byron, and Maeterlinck, and Heinrich Heine, and various other wicked persons.  It would give you what the dear governesses would call ‘les idees folles’, but being an artist, a great artist, you will understand me.  Now, you yourself—­you will not marry?”

“I am to be married next year if all is well, to Florian Varillo,” said Angela, “Surely you know that?”

“I have heard it, but I will not believe it,” said the Marquis airily, “No, no, you will never marry this Florian!  Do not tell me of it!  You yourself will regret it.  It is impossible!  You could not submit to matrimonial bondage.  If you were plain and awkward I should say to you, marry, and marry quickly, it is the only thing for you!—­but being what you are, charming and gifted, why should you be married?  For protection?  Every man who has once had the honour of meeting you will constitute himself your defender by natural instinct.  For respectability?  Ah, but marriage is no longer respectable,—­the whole estate of matrimony is as full of bribery and corruption as the French War Office.”

He threw himself back in his chair and laughed, running one hand through his hair with a provoking manner of indifferent ease and incorrigible lightheartedness.

“I cannot argue with you on the matter,” said Angela, rather vexedly, “Your ideas of life never will be mine,—­women look at these things differently . . .”

“Poor dear women!  Yes!—­they do,” said the Marquis, “And that is such a pity,—­they spoil all the pleasure of their lives.  Now, just think for a moment what your friend Sylvie is losing!  A devoted, ardent and passionate lover who would spare no pains to make her happy,—­who would cherish her tenderly, and make her days a dream of romance!  I had planned in my mind such a charming boudoir for Sylvie, all ivory and white satin,—­flowers, and a soft warm light falling through the windows,—­imagine Sylvie, with that delicate face of hers and white rose skin, a sylph clad in floating lace and drapery, seen in a faint pink hue as of a late sunset!  You are an artist, mademoiselle, and you can picture the fairy-like effect!  I certainly am not ashamed to say that this exquisite vision occupies my thoughts,—­it is a suggestion of beauty and deliciousness in a particularly ugly and irksome world,—­but to ask such a dainty creature as Sylvie to be my housekeeeper, and make up the tradesmen’s books, I could not,—­it would be sheer insolence on my part,—­it would be like asking an angel just out of heaven to cut off her wings and go downstairs and cook my dinner!”