y, it is quite
clear, evidently know something very much to the Count's discredit."

"I don't believe they do!" cried Sylvia, hotly. "It is mere prejudice
on their part! He does not like them, and they know it. He thinks them
vulgar sort of people, and he suspects that Monsieur Wachner is
German--that is quite enough for him."

"But, after all, it does not really matter what the Wachners think of the
Comte de Virieu, or what he thinks of them," said Anna. "What matters is
what _you_ think of him, and what _he_ thinks of you."

Sylvia was glad that the darkness hid her deep, burning blushes from Anna
Wolsky.

"You do not realise," said the Polish lady, gravely, "what your life
would be if you were married to a man whose only interest in life is
play. Mind you, I do not say that a gambler does not make a kind husband.
We have an example"--she smiled a little--"in this Monsieur Wachner. He
is certainly very fond of his wife, and she is very fond of him. But
would you like your husband always to prefer his vice to you?"

Sylvia made no answer.

"But why am I talking like that?" Anna Wolsky started up suddenly. "It is
absurd of me to think it possible that you would dream of marrying the
Comte de Virieu! No, no, my dear child, this poor Frenchman is one of
those men who, even if personally charming, no wise woman would think of
marrying. He is absolutely ruined. I do not suppose he has a penny left
of his own in the world. He would not have the money to buy you a wedding
ring. You would have to provide even that! It would be madness--absolute
madness!"

"I do not think," said Sylvia, in a low tone, "that there is the
slightest likelihood of my ever marrying the Comte de Virieu. You forget
that I have known him only a short time, and that he has never said a
word of love to me. As you say, all he cares about is play."

"Surely you must be as well aware as I am that lately he has played a
great deal less," said Anna, "and the time that he would have spent at
the Club--well, you and I know very well where he has spent the time,
Sylvia. He has spent it with you."

"And isn't that a good thing?" asked Sylvia, eagerly. "Isn't it far
better that he should spend his time talking to me about ordinary things
than in the Casino? Let me assure you again, and most solemnly, Anna,
that he never makes love to me--"

"Of course it is a good thing for him that he plays less"--Anna spoke
impatiently--"but is it best for you? That