"Twelve fishermen were enough to preach the Gospel," he thought,
"Yet now there cannot be found twelve faithful souls who will
protest against its falsification!"
And on St. Cecilia's morning he was in sad and sober mood,--too
vexed with himself to contemplate his future work without a sense of
pain and disappointment and loneliness. He loved Sylvie Hermenstein,
and admitted his passion for her frankly to his own soul, but at the
same time felt that a union with her would be impossible. He had
seen her nearly every day since their first introduction to each
other, and had realised to the height of soul-intoxication the
subtle charm of her delicate beauty, and the sweetness of her
disposition. But--(there was a but in it,--there always is!) he was
not sure of her constancy. The duel between the Marquis Fontenelle
and the actor Miraudin had furnished food for gossip at all the
social gatherings in Rome, and Sylvie's name, freely mentioned as
the cause of the dispute, had been thus given an unpleasant
notoriety. And though Aubrey Leigh was far too chivalrous and noble-
natured to judge and condemn a woman without seeking for the truth
from her own lips, he was indescribably annoyed to hear her spoken
of in any connection with the late Marquis.
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