Meanwhile, Angela Sovrani was detained in her studio by the fascinating company and bewildering chatter of a charming and very well-known personage in Europe,—­a dainty, exquisitely dressed piece of femininity with the figure of a sylph and the complexion of a Romney “Lady Hamilton,”—­the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein, an Austro-Hungarian of the prettiest and most bewitching type, who being a thorough bohemienne in spirit, and having a large fortune at her disposal, travelled everywhere, saw everything, and spent great sums of money not only in amusing herself, but in doing good wherever she went.  By society in general, she was voted “thoroughly heartless,”—­ when as a matter of fact she had too much heart, and gave her “largesse” of sympathy somewhat too indiscriminately.  Poor people worshipped her,—­the majority of the rich envied her because most of them had ties and she had none.  She might have married scores of times, but she took a perverse pleasure in “drawing on” her admirers till they were just on the giddy brink of matrimony,—­then darting off altogether she left them bewildered, confused, and not a little angry.

“They tell me I cannot love, cara mia,” she was saying now to Angela who sat in pleased silence, studying her form, her colouring, and her animated expression; with all the ardour of an artist who knows how difficult it is to catch the swift and variable flashes of beauty on the face of a pretty woman, who is intelligent as well as personally charming.  “They tell me I have no heart at all.  Me—­ Sylvie!—­no heart!  Helas!—­I am all heart!  But to love one of those stupid heavy men, who think that just to pull a moustache and smile is sufficient to make a conquest—­ah, no!—­not for me!  Yet I am now in love!—­truly!—­ah, you laugh!—­” and she laughed herself, shaking her pretty head, adorned with its delicate “creation” in gossamer and feathers, which was supposed to be a hat—­“Yes, I am in love with the Marquis Fontenelle!  Ah!—­le beau Marquis!  He is so extraordinary!—­so beautiful!—­so wicked!  It must be that I love him, or why should I trouble myself about him?”

She spread out her tiny gloved hands appealingly, with a delightful little shrug of her shoulders, and again Angela laughed.

“He is good-looking, certainly,” she said, “He is very like Miraudin.  They might almost be brothers.”

“Miraudin, ce cher Miraudin!” exclaimed the Comtesse gaily, “The greatest actor in Europe!  Yes, truly!—­I go to the theatre to look at him and I almost fancy I am in love with him instead of Fontenelle, till I remember he stage-manages;—­ah!—­then I shudder!- -and my shudder kills my love!  After all it is only his resemblance to the Marquis that causes the love,—­and perhaps the shudder!”

“Sylvie, Sylvie!” laughed Angela, “Can you not be serious?  What do you mean?”