Madame Wolsky, though generally so undemonstrative, took Sylvia in her arms and kissed her.
"God bless you, my dear little friend!" she whispered, "and forgive all I have said to you to-night! Still, think the matter over. I have lived a great deal of my life in this country. I am almost a Frenchwoman. It is no use marrying a Frenchman unless his family marry you too—and I understand that the Comte de Virieu's family have cast him off."
Sylvia got into the carriage and looked back, her eyes blinded with tears.
Anna Wolsky stood in the doorway of the Pension, her tall, thin figure in sharp silhouette against the lighted hall.
"We will meet the day after to-morrow, is that not so?" she cried out.
And Sylvia nodded. As she drove away, she told herself that whatever happened she would always remain faithful to her affection for Anna Wolsky.
