as she moved,—­her golden hair escaping in one or two silky waves from under a picturesque black hat, fastened on by velvet ribbons, which were tied in a captivating knot under the sweetest of little white chins, a chin whose firm contour almost contradicted the sensitive lines of the kissable mouth above it.  A curious, dull sense of anger teased the astute brain of Domenico Gherardi, as with all the dignified deportment of the stately churchman, he walked on by her side.  What was all his scheming worth, he began to think, if this slight feminine creature proved herself more than a match for him?  The utmost he could do with his life and ambitions was to sway the ignorant, cram his coffers with gold, and purchase a change of mistresses for his villa at Frascati.  But love,—­real love, from any human creature alive he never had won, and knew he never should win.  Sylvie Hermenstein was richer far than he,—­she had not only wealth and a great position, but the joys of a natural existence, and of a perfect home-life were not denied to her.  Presently, seeing that they were approaching the gates of exit from the Pamphili, he said,—­

“Contessa, will you give me the favour of an hour’s conversation with you one afternoon this week?  I have something of the very greatest importance to say to you.”

“Can you not say it now?” asked Sylvie.

“No, it would take too long,—­besides, if walls have ears, it is possible that gardens have tongues!  I should not presume to trouble you, were it not for the fact that my business concerns the welfare of your friend, Mr. Aubrey Leigh, in whose career I think you are interested,—­and not only Mr. Leigh, but also Cardinal Bonpre.  You will be wise to give me the interview I seek,—­unwise if you refuse it!”

“Monsignor, you have already been well received at my house, and will be well received again,”—­said Sylvie with a pretty dignity, “Provided you do not abuse my hospitality by calumniating my friends, whatever you may think of myself,—­you will be welcome!  What day, and at what hour shall I expect you?”

Gherardi considered a moment.

“I will write,” he said at last, “I cannot at this moment fix the time, but I will not fail to give you notice.  A riverderci!  Benedicite!”

And he left her abruptly at the gates, walking rapidly in the direction of the Vatican.  Full of vague perplexities to which she could give no name, Sylvie went homewards slowly, and as she entered her rooms, and responded to the affectionate morning greetings of Madame Bozier, she was conscious of a sudden depression that stole over her bright soul like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and made her feel chilled and sad.  Turning over the numerous letters that waited her perusal, she recognised the handwriting of the Marquis Fontenelle on one, and took it up with a strange uneasy dread and beating of the heart.  She read it twice through, before entirely grasping its meaning, and then—­as she realised that the man who had caused her so much pain and shame by his lawless and reckless pursuit of her in the character of a libertine, was now, with a frank confession of his total unworthiness, asking her to be his wife,—­the tears rushed to her eyes, and a faint cry broke from her lips.