the flickering lights, he presently perceived the Princesse D’Agramont a little in front of him,—­and beside her were her two friends, Angela Sovrani and Sylvie Hermenstein.  Sylvie was kneeling, and her face was hidden.  Angela was seated,—­and her eyes, full of the radiance of thought and dreaming genius, were fixed on the altar.  Gradually he moved up till he reached the rough bench where they were all together—­the Princesse D’Agramont saw him at once, and signed to him to take a vacant place next to Sylvie.  He sat down very gently—­afraid to disturb the graceful figure kneeling within touch of his hand—­how devout she seemed, he thought!  But as the Agnus Dei ceased, she stirred, and rose quietly,—­as quietly as a bent flower might lift itself in the grass after the rush of the wind,—­and gave him a gentle salute, then sat down beside him, drooping her soft eyes over her prayer-book, but not before he had seen that they were wet with tears.  Was she unhappy he wondered?  It seemed impossible!  Such a woman could never be unhappy!  With beauty, health, and a sunny temperament,—­wealth and independence, what could she know of sorrow!  It is strange how seldom a man can enter into the true comprehension of a woman’s grief, though he may often be the cause of the trouble.  A woman, if endowed with beauty and charm, ought never, in a man’s opinion, to look sad, whatever she may feel.  It is her business to smile, and shine like a sunbeam on a spring morning for his delectation always.  And Aubrey Leigh, though he could thoroughly appreciate and enter into the sordid woes of hard-worked and poverty-stricken womankind, was not without the same delusion that seems to possess all his sex,—­namely, that if a woman is brilliantly endowed, and has sufficient of this world’s goods to ensure her plenty of friends and pretty toilettes, she need never be unhappy.  Sylvie’s tears were therefore a mystery to him, except when a jealous pang contracted his generally liberal and tender soul, and he thought, “Perhaps she is grieving for the Marquis Fontenelle!” He glanced at her every now and again dubiously,—­while the service went on, and the exquisite music beat rhythmic waves against the ancient walls and roof of the murdered Saint’s tomb,—­but her face, fair and childlike, was a puzzle to his mind,—­he could never make out from its expression whether she were thoughtful or frivolous.  Strange mistakes are often made in physiognomy.  Often the so-called “intellectual” face,—­the “touch-me-not” dignity—­the “stalking-tragedy” manner, covers a total lack of brain,—­and often a large-featured, seemingly “noble” face, has served as a mask for untold depths of villainy.  The delicate, small face of Nelson suggested nothing of the giant heroism in his nature, and many a pretty, and apparently frivolous woman’s face, which suggests nothing but the most thoughtless gaiety, is a disguise for a strong nature capable of lofty and self-sacrificing deeds.  There is nothing likely to be so deceptive as a human countenance,—­for with the exception of a few uncomfortably sincere persons, we all try to make it disguise our feelings as much as we can.