Shall I talk to you about Aubrey?"
"Ah! That is a subject you are never tired of!" said Angela with a
faint smile. "Nor am I."
"Well, you ought to be," answered Sylvie gaily, "for I am too
blindly, hopelessly in love to know when to stop! I see nothing else
and know nothing else--it is Aubrey, Aubrey all the time. The air,
the sunlight, the whole world, seem only an admirable exposition of
Aubrey!"
"Then how would you feel if he did not love you any more?" asked
Angela.
"But that is not possible!" said Sylvie. "Aubrey could not change.
It is not in him. He is not like our poor friend Fontenelle."
"Ah! That love of yours was only fancy, Sylvie!"
"We all have our fancies!" answered the pretty Comtesse, looking
very earnestly into Angela's eyes. "We are not always sure that what
we first call love is love. But I had much more than a fancy for the
Marquis Fontenelle. If he had loved me--as I think he did at the
last--I should certainly have married him. But during all the time I
knew him he had a way of relegating all women to the same level--
servants, actresses, ballet-dancers, and ladies alike,--he would
never admit that there is as much difference between one woman and
another as between one man and another.
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