“Are you the Comtesse Hermenstein?” said Gherardi then, after an impressive pause, “The faithful, gentle daughter of Holy Church? or are you some perverted spirit wearing her semblance?”

Sylvie laughed.

“If I am a perverted spirit you ought to be able to exorcise me, Monsignor!” she said,—­“With the incense of early Mass clinging to you, and the holy water still fresh on your hands, you have only to say, ‘Retro me Sathanas!’ and if I am not Sylvie Hermenstein I shall melt into thin air, leaving nothing but the odour of sulphur behind me!  But if I am Sylvie Hermenstein, I shall remain invincible and immovable,—­both in myself and in my opinions!”

Gherardi controlled his rising irritation, and was silent for some minutes, reflecting within himself that if the fair Countess had suddenly turned restive and wayward, it was probably because she was falling in love with the author whose works she defended, and taking this into consideration, he judged it would be wisest to temporise.

“Invincible you always are!” he said in softer tones, “As many unhappy men in Europe can testify!”

“Are you among them?” queried Sylvie mischievously, the light of laughter beginning to twinkle and flash in her pretty eyes.

“Of course!” answered Gherardi suavely, though his heart beat thickly, and the secret admiration he had always felt for the delicate beauty of this woman who was so utterly out of his reach, made his blood burn with mingled rage and passion.  “Even a poor priest is not exempt from temptation!”

Sylvie hummed a little tune under her breath, and looked up at the sky.

“It will be a lovely day!” she said—­“There will be no rain!”

“Is that the most interesting thing you can say to me?” queried Gherardi.

“The weather is always interesting,” she replied, “And it is such a safe subject of conversation!”

“Then you are afraid of dangerous subjects?”

“Oh no, not at all!  But I dislike quarrelling,—­and I am afraid I should get very angry if you were to say anything more against the book I am reading”—­here she paused a moment, and then added steadily, “or its author!”

“I am aware that he is a great friend of yours,” said Gherardi gently, “And I assure you, Contessa—­seriously I assure you, I should be the last person in the world to say anything against him.  Indeed, there is nothing to say, beyond the fact that he is, according to our religion, a heretic—­but he is a brilliant and intellectual heretic,—­well worth redeeming!” He emphasised the words, and shot a meaning glance at her; but she did not appear to take his hint or fathom his intention.  She walked on steadily, her eyes downcast,—­her tiny feet, shod in charming little French walking shoes, peeping in and out with a flash of steel on their embroidered points, from under the mysterious gleam of silk flounces that gave a soft “swish,”