Sylvie Hermenstein” and his own, “Mr. Aubrey Leigh”; he was dimly aware of bowing, and of saying something vague and formal, but all the actuality of his being was for the moment shaken and transfigured, and only one strong and overwhelming conviction remained,—­the conviction that, in the slight creature who stood before him gracefully acknowledging his salutation, he had met his fate.  Now he understood as he had never done before what the poet-philosopher meant by “the celestial rapture falling out of heaven";—­for that rapture fell upon him and caught him up in a cloud of glory, with all the suddenness and fervour which must ever attend the true birth of the divine passion in strong and tender natures.  The calculating sensualist can never comprehend this swiftly exalted emotion, this immediate radiation of light through all life, which is like the sun breaking through clouds on a dark day.  The sensualist has by self-indulgence, blunted the edge of feeling, and it is impossible for him to experience this delicate sensation of exquisite delight,—­ this marvellous assurance that here and now, face to face, stands the One for whom all time shall be merged into a Song of Love, and upon whom all the sweetest thoughts of imagination shall be brought to bear for the furtherance of mutual joy!  Aubrey’s strong spirit, set to stern labour for so long, and trained to toil with but scant peace for reward, now sprang up as it were to its full height of capability and resolution,—­yet its power was tempered with that tender humility which, in a noble-hearted man, bends before the presence of the woman whose love for him shall make her sacred.  All his instincts bade him recognise Sylvie as the completion and fulfilment of his life, and this consciousness was so strong and imperative that it made him more than gentle to her as he spoke his first few words, and obtained her consent to escort her to a seat not far off from the Cardinal, yet removed sufficiently from the rest of the people to enable them to converse uninterruptedly for a time.  Angela watched them, well pleased;—­she too had quick instincts, and as she noted Sylvie’s sudden flush under the deepening admiration of Aubrey’s eyes, she thought to herself, “If it could only be!  If she could forget Fontenelle—­if—­”

But here her thoughts were interrupted by her own “ideal",—­Florian Varillo who, catching her hand abruptly, drew her aside for a moment.

“Carissima mia, why did you not introduce the Princesse D’Agramont to Mr. Leigh rather than the Comtesse Hermenstein?  The Princesse is of his way of thinking,—­Sylvie is not!” and he finished his sentence by slipping an arm round her waist quickly, and whispering a word which brought the colour to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes, and made her heart beat so quickly that she could not speak for a moment.  Yet she was supposed by the very man whose embrace thus moved her, to be “passionless!”

“You must not call her ’Sylvie’,” she answered at last, “She does not like such familiarity—­even from you!”