ady he
called in his own mind his "_petite amie Anglaise_," and very much he
was enjoying the experience--when his conscience allowed him to enjoy it.

Till the last few weeks Paul de Virieu had supposed himself to have come
to that time of life when a man can no longer feel the delicious tremors
of love. Now no man, least of all a Frenchman, likes to feel that this
time has come, and it was inexpressibly delightful to him to know that
he had been mistaken--that he could still enjoy the most absorbing and
enchanting sensation vouchsafed to poor humanity.

He was in love! In love for the first time for many years, and with a
sweet, happy-natured woman, who became more intimately dear to him every
moment that went by. Indeed, he knew that the real reason why he had felt
so depressed last night and even this morning was because he was parted
from Sylvia.

But where was it all to end? True, he had told Mrs. Bailey the truth
about himself very early in their acquaintance--in fact, amazingly soon,
and he had been prompted to do so by a feeling which defied analysis.

But still, did Sylvia, even now, realise what that truth was? Did she in
the least understand what it meant for a man to be bound and gagged, as
he was bound and gagged, lashed to the chariot of the Goddess of Chance?
No, of course she did not realise it--how could such a woman as was
Sylvia Bailey possibly do so?

Walking up and down the long platform, chewing the cud of bitter
reflection, Paul de Virieu told himself that the part of an honest man,
to say nothing of that of an honourable gentleman, would be to leave
Lacville before matters had gone any further between them. Yes, that
was what he was bound to do by every code of honour.

And then, just as he had taken the heroic resolution of going back to
Brittany with his sister, as Marie-Anne had begged him to do only that
morning, the Lacville train steamed into the station--and with the sight
of Sylvia's lovely face all his good resolutions flew to the winds.

She stepped down from the high railway carriage, and looked round her
with a rather bewildered air, for a crowd of people were surging round
her, and she had not yet caught sight of Count Paul.

Wearing a pinkish mauve cotton gown and a large black tulle hat, Sylvia
looked enchantingly pretty. And if the Count's critical French eyes
objected to the alliance of a cotton gown and tulle hat, and to the
wearing of a string of large pearls in the mo