via," she said, "dear little Sylvia! Sometimes I feel uneasy at
having brought you to Lacville." She spoke in a thoughtful and very
serious tone.

"Indeed, you need feel nothing of the kind."

Sylvia Bailey put out her hand and took the other woman's hand in her
own. She knew in her heart what Anna meant, but she wilfully pretended to
misunderstand her.

"You need never think that I run the slightest risk of becoming a
gambler," she went on, a little breathlessly. "I was looking at my
account-book to-day, and I find that since I have been here I have lost
seventy francs. Two days ago I had won a hundred and ten francs. So you
see it is not a very serious matter, is it? Just think of all the fun
I've had! It's well worth the money I've lost. Besides, I shall probably
win it all back--"

"I was not thinking of the money," said Anna Wolsky slowly.

Sylvia made a restless movement, and took her hand out of Anna's
affectionate clasp.

"I'm afraid that you are becoming very fond of the Comte de Virieu," went
on Anna, in a low voice but very deliberately. "You must forgive me,
Sylvia, but I am older than you are. Have you thought of the consequences
of this friendship of yours? I confess that at the beginning I credited
that man with the worst of motives, but now I feel afraid that he is in
love--in fact I feel sure that he is madly in love with you. Do you know
that he never takes his eyes off you in the Club? Often he forgets to
pick up his winnings...."

Sylvia's heart began to beat. She wondered if Anna was indeed telling
the truth. She almost bent forward and kissed her friend in her
gratitude--but all she said was, and that defiantly,

"You can believe me when I say that he has never said a word of love to
me. He has never even flirted with me. I give you my word that that is
so!"

"Ah, but it is just that fact that makes me believe that he cares.
Flirtation is an English art, not a French art, my dear Sylvia. A
Frenchman either loves--and when he loves he adores on his knees--or
else he has no use, no use at all, for what English people mean by
flirtation--the make-believe of love! I should feel much more at
ease if the Count had insulted you--"

"Anna!"

"Yes, indeed! I am quite serious. I fear he loves you."

And as Sylvia gave a long, involuntary, happy sigh, Anna went on: "Of
course, I do not regard him with trust or with liking. How could I? On
the other hand, I do not go as far as the Wachners; the