Sylvia Bailey went through a very mournful hour. She felt terribly depressed and unhappy, and at last, though there was still a considerable time to dinner, she went downstairs and out into the garden with a book.
And then, in a moment, everything was changed. From sad, she became happy; from mournful and self-pitying, full of exquisite content.
Looking up, Sylvia had seen the now familiar figure of Count Paul de Virieu hurrying towards her.
How early he had left Paris! She had understood that he meant to come back by the last train, or more probably to-morrow morning.
"Paris was so hot, and my sister found that friends of hers were passing through, so I came back earlier than I meant to do," he said a little lamely; and then, "Is anything the matter?"
He looked with quick, anxious concern into her pale face and red-lidded eyes. "Did you have a bad night at the tables?"
Sylvia shook her head.
"Something so strange—so unexpected—has happened." Her mouth quivered. "Anna Wolsky has left Lacville!"
"Left Lacville?" Count Paul repeated, in almost as incredulous a tone as that in which Sylvia herself had said the words when the news had been first brought her. "Have you and she quarrelled, Mrs. Bailey? You permit?" He waited till she looked up and said listlessly, "Yes, please do," before lighting his cigarette.
"Quarrelled? Oh, no! She has simply gone away without telling me!"
