“My child!”

“Yes,” repeated Sylvie, her eyes darkening and lightening quickly in their own fascinating way, “I would consent to shock the stupid old world!—­though one can scarcely ever shock it nowadays, because it has itself become so shocking!  But then the man for whom I would sacrifice myself, must love me as ardently as I would love him!  That is the difficulty, Katrine.  For men do not love—­they only desire.”

She raised her face to the sky, and the moonbeams shed a golden halo round her.

“That,” she said slowly, “is the reason why I have come here to avoid the Marquis Fontenelle.  He does not love me!”

“He is a villain!” said Madame Bozier with asperity.

“Helas!  There are so many villains!” sighed Sylvie, still looking up at the brilliant heavens, “And sometimes if a villain really loves anybody he half redeems his villainy.  But the Marquis loves himself best of anyone in the world . . . and I—­I do not intend to be second in anyone’s affections!  So . . .” she paused, “Do you see that star, Katrine?  It is as bright as if it were shining on a frosty night in America.  And do you not notice the resemblance to the eyes of the stranger who has my rose?  I daresay he will put it under his pillow to-night, and dream!” She laughed,—­“Let us go in!”

Madame Bozier followed her as she stepped back into the lighted salon, where she was suddenly met by her little Arab page, carrying a large cluster of exquisite red and white roses.  A card was attached to the flowers, bearing the words, “These many unworthy blossoms in return for one beyond all worth.”

The Comtesse read and passed it in silence to Madame Bozier.  A smile was on her face, and a light in her eyes.

“I think Rome is not so dull after all!” she said, as she set the flowers carefully in a tall vase of Etruscan ware, “Do you know, I am beginning to find it interesting!”

XVIII.

Aubrey Leigh was a man who had chosen his own way of life, and, as a natural consequence of this, had made for himself an independent and original career.  Born in the New World of America he had been very highly educated,—­not only under the care of a strict father, and an idolising mother, but also with all the advantages one of the finest colleges in the States could give him.  Always a brilliant scholar, and attaining his successes by leaps and bounds rather than by close and painstaking study, the day came,—­as it comes to all finely-tempered spirits,—­when an overpowering weariness or body and soul took possession of him,—­when the very attainment of knowledge seemed absurd,—­and all things, both in nature and art, took on a sombre colouring, and the majestic pageant of the world’s progress appeared no more than a shadow too vain and futile to be worth while watching as it passed.  Into a Slough of Despond, such as Solomon experienced