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.
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