“Et le doux son des baisers que la Reine a promit A celui qui monte, sans peur et sans retour Au Palais D’Iffry!”

and he so lost himself in a tangle of thought that he did not observe how closely Monsignor Gherardi was studying every expression of his face, and he started as if he had been awakened from a dream when Sylvie’s song ceased, and Sylvie herself glanced up at him.

“Music seems to make you sad, Mr. Leigh!” she said timidly.

“Not music—­but sometimes the fancies which music engenders, trouble me,” he answered, bending his earnest searching eyes upon her, and wondering within himself whether such a small, slight gossamer thing of beauty, brilliant as a tropical humming-bird, soft and caressable as a dove, could possibly be expected to have the sweet yet austere fortitude and firmness needed to be a true “helpmeet” to him in the work he had undertaken, and the life he had determined to lead.  He noted all the dainty trifles of her toilette half doubtingly, half admiringly,—­the knot of rich old lace that fastened her sables,—­ the solitary star-like diamond which held that lace in careless position—­the numerous little touches of taste and elegance which made her so unique and graceful among women—­and a pang shot through his heart as he thought of her wealth, and his own poverty.  She meanwhile, on her part, was studying him with all the close interest that a cultured and refined woman feels, who is strongly conscious of having awakened a sudden and masterful passion in a man whom she secretly admires.  A triumphant sense of her own power moved her, allied to a much more rare and beautiful emotion—­the sense of soul-submission to a greater and higher life than her own.  And so it chanced that never had she looked so charming—­never had her fair cheeks flushed a prettier rose—­never had her easy fascination of manner been so bewitchingly troubled by hesitation and timidity—­ never had her eyes sparkled with a softer or more irresistible languor.  Aubrey felt that he was fast losing his head as he watched her move, speak, and smile,—­and with a sudden bracing up of his energies resolved to make his adieux at once.

“I must be going,—­” he began to say, when his arm was touched from behind, and he turned to confront Florian Varillo, who smiled with all the brilliancy his white and even teeth could give him.

“Why must you be going?” asked Varillo cheerily, “Why not stay and dine with my future father-in-law, and Angela, and the eminent Cardinal?  We shall all be charmed!”

“Thanks, no!—­I have letters to write to England . . .”

“Good-bye!” said the Comtesse Hermenstein at this juncture,—­“I am going to drive the Princesse D’Agramont round the Pincio, will you join us, Mr. Leigh?  The Princesse is anxious to know you—­may I introduce you?”

And without waiting for a reply, as the Princesse was close at hand, she performed the ceremony of introduction at once in her own light graceful fashion.