ter believed that all Frenchmen regard marriage as a matter of business. To such a man as this Count, Mrs. Bailey's fortune would be a godsend.
"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, in a low, stern voice.
He turned round and looked at her. She was staring straight before her; the colour had faded from her cheek; she looked pale and tired.
"Sylvia!" he repeated. "Listen to me, and—and don't be offended."
She glanced quickly at the man sitting by her side. His voice was charged with emotion, with anger.
"Don't be angry with me," he repeated. "If my suspicion, my fear, is unfounded, I beg your pardon with all my heart."
Sylvia got up and touched the driver on the shoulder. "Please slow down," she said in French, "we are going faster than I like."
Then she sank back in her seat. "Yes, Bill! What is it you wish to ask me? I couldn't hear you properly. We were going too fast."
"Is it possible, is it conceivable, that you are thinking of marrying this Frenchman?"
"No," said Sylvia, very quietly, "I am not thinking of marrying the Comte de Virieu. But he is my friend. I—I like and respect him. No, Bill, you need not fear that the Comte de Virieu will ever ask me to become his wife."
"But if he did?" asked Chester, hoarsely.
"You have no right to ask me such a question," she answered, passionately; and then, after a pause, she added, in a low voice: "But if he did, I should say no, Bill."
