"I must apologise for this intrusion," he said, speaking in deep,
soft accents which gave a singular charm to his simplest words,
"But--to be quite frank with you--I thought I should find the
Comtesse Hermenstein here."
Angela smiled. In her heart she considered the man a social
reprobate, but it was impossible to hear him speak, and equally
impossible to look at him without a vague sense of pleasure in his
company.
"Sylvie was here a moment ago," she answered, still smiling.
The Marquis took one or two quick impulsive steps forward--then
checking himself, stopped short, and selecting a chair deliberately
sat down.
"I understand!" he said, "She wished to avoid me, and she has done
so. Well!--I would not run after her for the world. She must be
perfectly free."
Angela looked at him with a somewhat puzzled air. She felt herself
in a delicate and awkward position. To be of any use in this affair
now seemed quite impossible. Her commission was to have told the
Marquis that Sylvie had left Paris, but she could not say that now
as Sylvie was still in the city. Was she supposed to know anything
about the Marquis's dishonourable proposals to her friend? Surely
not! Then what was she to do? She stood hesitating, glancing at the
fine, clear-cut, clean-shaven face of Fontenelle, the broad
intellectual brows, and the brilliant hazel eyes with their languid,
half-satirical expression, and her perplexity increased.
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