Their eyes met, and Varillo shifted uneasily in his chair.

“The same,” he replied curtly.

Again Sylvie laughed.

“Immaculate creature!” she murmured, “The noblest of her sex, of course!  Men always call the women who pander to their vices ’noble’.”

Varillo flushed an angry red.

“You are pleased to be sarcastic, fair lady.” he said carelessly, “I do not understand—­”

“No?  You are not usually so dense with me, though to those who do not know you as well as I do, you sometimes appear to be the very stupidest of men!  Now be frank!—­tell me, is not Pon-Pon one of the ‘noble’ women?”

“She is a very good creature,” averred Varillo gently, and with an air that was almost pious,—­“She supports her family entirely on her earnings.”

“How charming of her!” laughed Sylvie, “And so exceptional a thing to do, is it not?  My dressmaker does the same thing,—­she ‘supports’ her family; but respectably!  And just think!—­if ever your right hand loses its cunning as a painter, Angela will be able to ‘support’ you!”

“Always Angela!” muttered Varillo, beginning to sulk, “Cannot you talk of something else?”

“No,—­not for the moment!  She is an interesting subject,—­to me!  She will arrive in Rome to-morrow night, and her uncle Cardinal Bonpre, will be with her, and they will all stay at the Sovrani Palace, which seems to me like a bit of the Vatican and an old torture-chamber rolled into one!  And, talking of this same excellent Cardinal, they have almost canonized him at the Vatican,—­almost, but not quite.”

“For what reason?”

“Oh, have you not heard?  It appears he performed a miracle in Rouen, curing a child who had been a cripple ever since babyhood, and making him run about as well and strong as possible.  One prayer did it, so it is said,—­the news reached the Vatican some days ago; our charming Monsignor Gherardi told me of it.  The secretary of the Archbishop of Rouen brought the news personally to the Holy Father.”

“I do not believe it,” said Varillo indifferently, “The days of miracles are past.  And from what I know, and from what Angela has told me of her uncle, Cardinal Bonpre, he would never lend himself to such nonsense.”

“Well, I only tell you what is just now the talk at the Vatican,” said Sylvie, “Your worthy uncle-in-law that is to be, may be Pope yet!  Have you heard from Angela?”

“Every day.  But she has said nothing about this miracle.”

“Perhaps she does not know,”—­and Sylvie began to yawn, and stretch her white arms above her head lazily, “Oh, dio mio!  How terribly dull is Rome!”

“How long have you been here, Contessa?”

“Nearly a week!  If I am not more amused I shall go away home to Budapest.”

“But how is one to amuse you?” asked Varillo, sitting down beside her and endeavouring to take her hand.  She drew it quickly from him.